


good love, good night

by hito



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Noir, Big Bang, Character Death, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles thinks it's lust at first sight when Lydia Martin sashays into his dinky little office with the case of her missing fiancé, but he isn't expecting the investigation to lead him to Derek Hale, who is searching for his missing sister, or to discover that something about Derek makes Stiles put all thoughts of the lovely Lydia aside. As the case progresses, he becomes as intrigued with the mysterious man as he is wary of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legal Aid

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to rubykatewriting for all the help and reassurance, and to RaelynnMarie for being so cool and understanding. And for the amazingly gorgeous art, which can be [found here.](http://becausethatswhatido.tumblr.com/post/39781149740/good-love-good-night-authors-name-januarylight) ♥s to eternity.

  
[](http://januarylight.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1081/9358)   


Stiles straightens, removing his hand from the dead woman's empty pocket. Her bag is on his desk. He's rifling through the contents when he hears his father's voice, just outside his office door. 

"Stiles!" 

He keeps searching. 

"Stiles, I don't want to have to give the order to enter, but I will!" 

The order is familiar, the language of it, and he knows his father hates using it. _All reasonable force_. Those words won't lead to any outcome his father will be able to live with, but Stiles knows that won't prevent him speaking them. 

There's silence from the other side of the door, and Stiles can almost hear the grief in his father's voice as he instructs his men. 

There's nothing but a ten-dollar bill in the bag. 

When they start battering at the door, Stiles goes out his window. 

*

_Three Days Earlier_

The noon sun is baking the pavement when Stiles steps out of the Jeep. Suzie Cambridge, his last client, had insisted he come to her place of business to deliver his report, and had then insisted on giving him a pedicure while he was delivering it. She hadn't wanted her watchful employer to think she was shirking. When he'd given her the bad news about her cheating girlfriend, she'd thrown one of his shoes at his head and refused to return the other. Stiles values his possessions, so he'd retrieved the shoe she'd thrown at him before leaving. 

He gets back into the Jeep to slide it on before hotfooting it into Criminal Cupcakes. The coolness of the tiled floor against his bare foot is a relief. 

"Hey, Danny," Stiles says. 

"Hey," Danny greets absently, not looking up from his laptop. 

The specials haven't changed. 

"I'll have a sandwich," Stiles pretends to decide. "Whatever you're having." 

"Cupcake store, Stiles," Danny informs him. "We do cupcakes and donuts." 

"If you have any of that mayo you bought last week left, that'd be great." Stiles is salivating at the memory. 

Danny grumpily gets up from his stool. "There's a deli right down the street, you know." 

"Are you suggesting I take my business elsewhere?" 

"I would never do that!" Danny protests. "I don't want you to leave. I want you to buy some damn cupcakes." 

"Give me one for Scott," Stiles allows. Scott will like it, but he takes the cupcake because he needs to stay on Danny's good side. He started coming into the cupcake place for lunch because he had a thing for Danny, but when they hit the skids he stuck around because Danny is right next door to the office and always has edible lunch-meat, which is more than can be said for the deli down the block. "No frosting." 

"Listen," Danny says. He squeezes out a portion of mayo so generous that Stiles knows this is going to be trouble. "I recommended you to a friend." 

"No," Stiles says. 

"Don't make me regret it." 

"I don't accept referrals from personal friends," Stiles tells Danny. "It's actually never come up before, but I'm absolutely certain it never ends well. Tell your friend I'm sorry." 

"And this is important to me, too," Danny continues. "So don't screw it up." 

"Hard to do that when I'm not working on it." 

Danny breaks out the Saran-wrap. Stiles usually eats here, so Danny is letting him know the conversation is over. 

"Dollar," Danny says, holding out his hand. 

He hasn't forgotten the cupcake, so Stiles is getting a friend-price. Stiles fishes a dollar out of his wallet and heads for the hills. 

Accepting a friend-price from Danny doesn't mean anything, because Danny _is_ his friend, so no obligation is implied. Stiles still has a bad feeling about this. 

"Why are you wearing one shoe?" Danny calls, as Stiles shoves through the door and steps out onto the burning concrete. 

When Stiles makes it up the stairs to the office, he finds Scott asleep under the reception desk. Scott is a tall, dark young man with a snore like a saw through logs. He's also Stiles' best friend, and the ostensible other half of this detective agency. 

He wakes with a whine when Stiles drops his lunch on his face. 

"'Searly, Stiles," he mumbles. 

"It's two in the afternoon." 

"Lunch?" Scott asks hopefully, rubbing his eyes and knocking the brown bag containing his cupcake onto the grubby carpet. 

"Get it before the mice do." 

"There are no mice!" Scott snaps to attention, eyes darting around the room, searching for signs of small rodents in dark corners. "I keep telling you there are no mice. I'm going to call the exterminator again." 

"Hold off on that," Stiles says, opening his office door to throw his shoe at the coat-rack and coming back to hop up on the desk beside Scott and make some headway on that sandwich. "Miss Cambridge wasn't such a fan of the idea of paying me for the privilege of being told her other half was playing away." 

"Man. I keep telling you: cash up front!" 

"I got my per diem!" 

Scott attempts to raise an eyebrow. Both go up, but he adequately conveys his scepticism nevertheless. "Which was?" 

"Twenty bucks," Stiles admits, deflating like a popped balloon. 

"Twenty _bucks_." There's pink icing all over Scott's hand. Danny never did like to give Stiles what he asked for. "What are we going to do with twenty bucks? I bet you spent more than that on gas." 

"Gotta spend some dough to make some cake." 

Scott's face is deadpan in a way Stiles recognises all too well from childhood exploits where Scott, somehow, had become the voice of reason. "Suck it up and go see your dad," Scott says. 

"I'm not asking my dad for help," Stiles says firmly, in a probably futile attempt to avoid rehashing an old argument for the nth time. 

"Or we're going to get evicted." 

"Well, when you say such sweet things." 

"He left a message asking you to go over for lunch." Scott picks up the post-it he'd written the note on, displaying it for Stiles on the end of a fingertip. "And you have lunch! It's like you _wanted_ to become nepotistic today." 

"It's lunchtime," Stiles says dryly. "And I'm hungry." Still, he takes the post-it. "You realise you aren't actually my secretary." 

"I bill plenty of hours!" Scott says, defensiveness turning him pink. "I had that thing last week. And if you don't want me knowing exactly how much nothing you have going on these days, you should hire an actual secretary to take care of our correspondence." 

Stiles waves a vague hand around the room, sparsely populated with the empty desk, the chair behind it and one off in the corner for potential clients, a silent telephone, and a yucca Stiles had stolen from his dad's house when they first opened. "Because we're drowning in unanswered pleas for assistance," he says. "Plus, we're going to get evicted next month, and we don't need another mouth to feed." 

"We're not going to get evicted!" Scott says hotly, and glares at Stiles until he takes the remainder of his sandwich and departs on an unwilling visit to his father. 

Well, not exactly unwilling. Stiles had chosen this location for their small private detective agency because of its proximity to the Sheriff's office. There wasn't much else to recommend it. He'd hoped they might catch some overflow, hoped people disillusioned with the system might spill through their door as a last resort, but things hadn't exactly turned out that way. Not that many people are disillusioned with his father's way of doing things, and those people aren't likely to turn from prosecution to smalltime sleuths like the Stall outfit. And the people who do seek out their services--the duped, the betrayed, the ones with secrets they don't want exposed to the harsh light of justice--don't particularly want to walk past all those black and whites on their way to the bottom of Stiles' stairway. 

But the other side of that coin is one of the few advantages the place does have: the fact that certain other people don't like walking past all those squad cars, namely discarded targets of investigations searching for revenge. Another positive is that it provides Stiles with the chance to dine with his father pretty frequently. 

But usually when he brings his dad lunch he doesn't have ulterior motives, so when he walks into the busy Sheriff's office he can't say he's exactly surprised that his determined lack of embarrassment and steadily fixed eyes lead him to take a tumble over a fine pair of outstretched legs. 

Stiles retains some of the skills he developed in high school, so he tucks his shoulder and rolls, then hits the reception desk, rebounds into a messy sprawl, and bounces to his feet. 

"Hey, Isaac," he says. 

"Stiles." 

He means to ask after his father, but Isaac is an old acquaintance, and Stiles is nothing if not friendly. "I'd apologise," Stiles says, "but that wasn't my fault. If you didn't want people tripping over your legs you wouldn't have made them so long and noteworthy. Worth the fall, too." 

Stiles rubs his bruised shoulder as Isaac looks down at his own legs, puzzled and shyly pleased. He's a pale, vulnerable-looking boy, still with shadows under his eyes though his brute of a father has been dead for almost three years now. He'd died in an animal attack; it had been a fitting end. 

"I haven't seen you in a while," Isaac says, plainly deciding to ignore Stiles' words. It's a shame; he's attractive in an interesting way, all uncertainty and stuttering hesitation and unspoken need, all waiting to draw a guy in and cling like a limpet. But he's never responded to Stiles' attempts at flirtation. He barely even responded to Stiles' attempts at friendship, back when they'd been at school together and Stiles had thought they'd had enough in common to build on. "How are you?" 

And Stiles means to say he's fine, but instead he speaks the truth. "Hanging on. Scott sent me over to see if my dad'd throw us a bone. We need something to gnaw on." 

"Pickings thin?" 

"You know how it is." 

"Yeah." Stiles knows he does, which is the reason he said anything in the first place. 

"But things'll turn around. They always do." 

"Yeah." Isaac sounds firm about that. "Always." 

Stiles is about to ask after Isaac's partner Boyd when his dad calls. "Stiles! Get in here and stop bothering my deputies!" 

"No need to yell." 

His dad's office is the mirror-image of Stiles', with piles of paper sliding over the surface of his desk, lights flashing on his phone, computer chirping to indicate the arrival of an email. 

"Bill," Myrna's voice says from the intercom, "you got five for Vernon?" 

His dad hits the button, saying, "Give me a couple after I've eaten before you let him in." When he turns to take the sandwich Stiles is holding out he explains, "Vernon's been giving me indigestion lately. It's difficult to get an idea out of that kid's head, but once he gives it to you, he doesn't want you to let it go." 

"What's in Boyd's head?" 

"Nothing important." 

"I'll just ask him." 

That annoys his dad, which is not what Stiles had wanted to do. He's still in two minds about asking for help. "It's just this Penny Blake thing, nothing to it." 

"Who's Penny Blake?" 

"Girl we found in the woods last week. Finally got an ID. Vernon thinks it's connected to the Argent case." 

Stiles is about to enquire further when his dad adds, irritably, "You're friends with Vernon and Isaac, aren't you? You went to school together." Stiles warily admits that to be the truth. "I wish you'd talk to 'em about the job. It isn't too late for you and Scott to get into the business for real." 

"We're in it," Stiles says tightly. This is another old argument, and another one that isn't going away. 

"Legitimately. So you wouldn't have to follow around cheating husbands and sit on teenage junkies all the time. You could do a decent day's work instead." 

"I think I do." 

"Yeah," his dad says. "I know it. I know you think it." 

That seems to put paid to Scott's dream of getting a helping hand here. "Enjoy the sandwich," Stiles says, though it's almost gone, and heads back out the door. 

"Hey, you still coming for Sunday lunch?" his dad calls after him. 

"Yeah." 

"I got a shoulder of ham. Ask Scott and Melissa." 

Stiles agrees to this and walks back through the pen on his way to the door. Isaac is on the phone, but he flags Stiles down. Stiles clears some space for himself on a corner of Isaac's desk and steals a sip from the fresh cup of coffee Boyd deposits on Isaac's notebook. 

"I'm not going back to the machine," Boyd says, but Isaac just waves it off. "You done with your dad already?" 

"He's done with me," Stiles says gloomily, though it isn't true, exactly. He's pretty sure his dad would grudgingly help them out if he asked; he just doesn't _want_ to ask, not when he knows how much his dad hates what he's doing. 

"He doesn't think there's anything wrong with _you_ ," Boyd tells him. "He may think most private operatives are lowlife scumbags trying to trade on our good name, but he doesn't apply that to you." 

"Good to know." 

Stiles takes a gulp of the coffee. It's still hot enough that it scalds the roof of his mouth. Isaac is speaking into the phone, offering meaningless reassurances to the person on the other end of the line, but he isn't paying much attention to his conversation. When Stiles puts the coffee cup back down on the notebook, Isaac hands it back to him, grabs a pen, and starts scribbling. He finally finishes his conversation, hangs up, and says, "Missing Pomeranian." 

"I could find a dog," Stiles says hopefully. 

"No, you couldn't." Isaac tears off the sheet of paper he's been writing on and holds it out to Stiles. "Lisa Lane. Runaway. She's eighteen, so we aren't into it, but her parents really want her back. She's in the Horseshoe Motel, and there'd be something in it if you could persuade her back to San Francisco." 

"All right," Stiles says, pocketing the lead. "Thanks." 

Isaac nods as Boyd asks, "He in a good mood?" 

"Dad? Thinks you've got a bee in your bonnet. What's the buzz?" 

"Nothing," Boyd says, and makes his way over to the Sheriff's office. 

Stiles raises an eyebrow at Isaac. "He thinks there's a connection between Kate Argent's murder and that body we found in the woods last week," Isaac explains. "I don't see it, but he's convinced." He gets wearily to his feet. "I better get in on that before tempers start fraying." 

Isaac's probably had a lot of practice trying to keep the peace, Stiles thinks, though not much success. It seems a shame he has to do the same here. 

"Good luck," is all he says. He means it. 

"You too," Isaac throws over his shoulder. 

There's a room number written on Isaac's notebook paper, so Stiles heads out to the Horseshoe Motel, hoping to make a start on his runaway case. He calls her parents on the way, and he doesn't get out of his Jeep until they've arrived at a figure that makes it worth his while. But he doesn't get an answer when he knocks, and there's no sign of life behind the yellowing net curtains, so he gives it up as a wasted trip and drives back to the office. 

Scott is standing behind the desk when Stiles opens the door. He looks like a stuffed penguin, staring off into the corner with bright, glassy eyes. He doesn't look at Stiles. "It would only take me two minutes to run down and get you some cupcakes," he says desperately. "Are you _sure_ you don't want some?" 

"Quite sure," a light, feminine voice says. "Is this Mr. Stilinski?" 

"Oh. It is. Stiles, this is--" 

Stiles comes into the room, shutting the door behind himself. "Hello," he says, looking at the women in the corner. 

Scott has dragged over the desk chair so they could both have somewhere to sit, but they rise to greet him. They're standing close together, but are quite divergent in looks. The one in the desk chair is tall and dark and willowy, movements suggesting a strength her slight frame belies. The other is smaller, with pale skin and delicious curves all topped with hair of a wild, Titian red, like the cherry on top of a sundae. 

"This is Allison Argent," Scott informs him, in such a tone as to leave Stiles in no doubt as to the lady's affect on his sensibilities. 

The woman comes towards him, hand outstretched, not for a shake, but to be held. He takes it, though he feels badly about it until, she says, "Lydia Martin. I believe you were expecting me." 

"Was I?" 

Her hand is soft, so Stiles lets it go. He prides himself on being businesslike, or at least preserving the appearance. 

"But Danny sent me! He told me he would explain." 

"Oh, Danny's friend. He didn't do more than mention you." Lydia looks vexed, so Stiles hastens to add, "You're very welcome, but I'm afraid you'll have to do your own explaining." 

She throws a look at Scott and then at the door to his office, so Stiles leads the way. 

"Will you wait here?" she asks her friend. "This shouldn't take long." 

Her friend makes vague noises about coming along as a support, but Lydia stands firm on wishing for a private interview. Stiles thinks Miss Argent's concern is misplaced: Miss Martin appears capable enough of looking after herself. Stiles admires her for it. 

As Stiles closes the door behind them, Scott's voice is offering, "Tea, Allison? I have hot water right here..." 

"I have plenty of that myself," Allison says quietly, and then Stiles turns into the room to find Lydia regarding him somewhat sceptically. 

"You don't look much like a private detective," she says flatly. 

"You don't look much like a lady who would require one." 

She preens a little at that, and takes the chair set in front of the desk for clients without waiting for an invitation. 

"Danny said you were well connected," Lydia says doubtfully, "but you don't look much like that, either." 

"My father is the Sheriff," Stiles admits. "So I'm certainly connected, though whether for well or ill I couldn't say." Her face falters, which is a common reaction. It's why Stiles doesn't usually mention his father to clients. "He has no involvement with my work." 

Lydia leans forwards, which causes a shift in the gravity of her body and draws the eye to the necklace nestled between her breasts. Stiles believes that was the purpose of its positioning, so he doesn't feel badly about it, but instead sizes up the stone. If it's real, and he thinks it is, it must have cost someone a pretty penny, though not nearly as much as the sparkler flashing on the ring finger of her left hand. 

"I was given to understand that you would be discreet," she says, voice annoyed and eyes flashing. It adds some pleasant colour to her face. "You must realise the necessity of discretion." 

"My dad doesn't know anything about what I do," Stiles tells her. "He wouldn't want to, even if I were willing to tell him." 

She settles back, her subsidence discontented. She twists the ring around and around, pads of her fingers rubbing over the surface of the rock restlessly, seeking reassurance. "I suppose that's all right. And even if it weren't, it isn't as if there's anything _wrong_. Nothing _criminal_ , you understand." 

"Even if there's nothing shifty about it, there's still something wrong. Suppose you tell me what that is." 

Her eyes flash him a glare brighter and harder than her diamond, then she relaxes deliberately, smile sweet and alluring. 

"I met Jackson when we were both young children," she begins confidingly. "In kindergarten." 

That's a shorter time ago than she'd wish him to believe, Stiles thinks. He estimates she's about his age, still in the early twenties. She'll want to appear worldly until she begins to fear looking haggard, with less than the blink of an eye in between the two. 

"And you've been love's young dream ever since?" 

Her eyes drop and her hands smooth out the material of her skirt as much as possible, which isn't much. It's a flattering skirt. She laughs lightly. "We became so eventually," she claims. "You know how these things go. We were on and off and off and on like a lightswitch until one day the bulb blew and I left for college in New York." 

"And here you are." 

"Well we can't live without light," Lydia says, "So after a while he came to get me. And I didn't come back." Stiles gestures at her presence. "I had a life there, and I wasn't going to come back just so Jackson could screw me over again." All her candles are burning. She means what she's saying. Then she _realises_ what she's saying. "Not that he ever did. I mean, he wasn't capable. Nothing he did ever mattered that much to me." 

"Go on." 

"But I came back here to do my PhD, because--" The line of her mouth goes vulnerable. "Well, you know. You know how it is." Stiles nods, though he doesn't, really. "And he'd meant it. He'd missed me, and things were different when I came back. I didn't even--I didn't even come back to him, not really, but he was so definite, and there was only so much I could stand." 

"So he kept after you until you caved." 

Her chin juts, but she swallows the insult down and forces good-humour. "I don't _cave_ , Mr Stilinski. I just wait for the world to remake itself." 

"And it did." 

She shrugs, and waves her hand through the air, stone glittering in the light. "He proposed at Christmas. We're getting married in nine days." 

Stiles' eyebrow rises of its own accord. "My felicitations. And the reason you're here?" 

Her eyes flinch away from the question, but the blandness of her face is not disturbed. "Jackson hasn't had the easiest life," she starts, fingers plucking nervously at the tassels on the side of the chair's armrest. 

"Drugs," Stiles suggests bluntly. 

"No." 

"Closet," Stiles says. 

"No, his apartment is quite large," she says defiantly. 

He lets it go. "I'd ask if he'd a weakness for the dogs, but you're still wearing that ring." 

"Jackson has more money than anyone could gamble away," Lydia says easily, as Stiles tries not to vomit. "His parents died when he was a baby, and he received a substantial settlement. He's very well taken care of." 

"I suppose I can't begrudge him that." It's about the only thing so far. 

"He was never all that close to his parents--his adoptive parents--and there was some breach while I was away. He wouldn't tell me what, but they're well-off in their own right, so I can't imagine it was the money." 

"You need a better imagination." 

She lifts a shoulder in acknowledgement of the hit. "They're as worried about him as I am." 

"You haven't told me why." 

Her eyes drift to the corner of the room, to the ceiling, and then back to his face, blank and resolute. "While I was away, I believe Jackson got mixed up with a cult." 

Stiles should be taking notes. This might be a real case. He belatedly scribbles on the notebook open on the desk, but nothing that means anything, nothing he won't remember anyway. 

"You believe." 

She shrugs again. "I know he got mixed up, but I only think it's a cult. I haven't seen enough of it to be sure. I haven't been allowed." 

"Tell me about it." 

She shakes herself like she's dislodging an unwelcome hand. "It's silly, really, it's just that--it's just that I'm allowed everywhere, and he won't stop." 

"Where is it you aren't allowed?" 

"Peter Hale's place. Well, it's his girlfriend's place, really, and there are a lot of other people living there, but he's the one running it." 

Stiles makes a note of the name. It chimes some kind of bell in the back of his mind, but he's pretty sure he hasn't heard it before. 

"And where's the finish line?" 

"I don't know, that's the awkward thing. Jackson took up with them in February, and I'm not sure where he met them or how it happened. He wouldn't tell me anything about it at first, but he kept spending such a lot of time with them, staying the whole night sometimes, and I got, you know--" Stiles knows. "--and then Jackson told me it was grief-counselling, but nobody could see Peter Hale as any kind of counsellor, unless it was sex, and even then he'd want to be _having_ it with you. And anyway, it isn't grief-counselling Jackson needs, it's psychoanalysis." 

"It's best to go into these things with your eyes wide open," Stiles says knowledgeably. 

Her eyes widen like she thinks he's in some kind of doubt. "Don't you think? I understand Jackson so well, so I realised right away when things started going wrong." 

"When was that?" 

Her fingers twist the ring again. "After Laura Hale vanished." 

"When did the lady vanish?" 

"Six days ago. Jackson had been speaking to her a lot lately. There wasn't anything going on between them, because look at me--" Stiles does, with pleasure. "--and also she wasn't really that kind of woman, but Jackson had been calling her, and he wouldn't let me hear what they were talking about." 

"And you would stand for that?" 

Lydia twirls a curl around a slender finger. "Men can be so difficult about that kind of thing. So I called up Laura myself, and she said it was House business, and she was taking care of it herself and Jackson should back off. Jackson can be like that." 

"House?" 

"Rivenden House. That big place out by the woods. Peter Hale's girlfriend bought it a couple months ago, though nobody knows where she got the money. She used to be a nurse." 

"Hale," Stiles says vaguely. "That sounds familiar." 

"Everybody knows the Hales," Lydia says, condescending. "Though you probably only know them from the fire." 

"The fire!" 

Stiles does know of the family, though he doesn't know them. The children had gone to Meadowbank High School, the private establishment Lydia and Jackson had undoubtedly attended, and they'd never really run in the same circles. 

"Right, the fire," she agrees, somewhat dismissively. "So tragic." 

It had been: Three generations and change of the family had been wiped out in a night as their homestead blazed. Stiles makes a note to look into it. It's on his list, right at the bottom. 

"So nobody saw much of them after the fire," Lydia continues. "Laura and her brother stuck around for a while, but they went out east, and then one day the uncle shows up out of the blue and they come tearing back into town after him." 

"Not a comfortable relationship?" 

"When's family comfortable?" she asks. "But I don't know much about it." 

"And what does this have to do with the price of pizza?" Stiles asks, putting down his pen. 

"Well, Laura vanished," Lydia tells him. "And Peter didn't care, according to Jackson, so Jackson went looking and didn't come back. And we're getting married next Saturday!" 

"That's a very long time away," Stiles opines. "Plenty of time to find a man." Or a body. "And that's too close for comfort. Plenty close enough to panic." The flash of Lydia's eyes is much less attractive when her hands are curling like she's about to leap across the desk and scratch his eyes out. "But who'd panic at the thought of marrying you?" That settles her enough to get on with, though she still doesn't look pleased. "I can find him." 

"Would you?" Everything about her beseeches. Stiles will find him, though he'd rather Lydia's Jackson were out of the picture. "I'd be so grateful." 

Stiles tells her there won't be any need, negotiates rates, and presses her for some particulars. She leaves behind five hundred bucks and a waft of musky perfume. Stiles pushes through the scent to the reception area, walking her to the door. Scott follows Allison like a panting puppy. 

"Everything okay?" Allison asks, slipping her hand through Lydia's arm. Stiles remembers her surname, _Argent_ , and considers bringing up the body, but doesn't see the need to make things awkward. If it's important, he can get the information elsewhere. 

"It will be," Lydia tells her cheerfully. 

Allison turns to Scott, evidently continuing an earlier conversation. "And Stiles quite understands the need for secrecy?" 

"We do," Scott reassures her, though she hadn't included him. 

"Lydia really doesn't need people thinking Jackson's run out on her." 

Lydia's eyes go flinty. "He would _never_. Mr Stilinski understands." She pulls Allison out the door, calling, "Check in tomorrow!" 

Stiles shuts the door behind them, ignoring the stretch of Scott's neck, craned for another glimpse of the dark head disappearing down the stairs. "What kind of a name is Jackson?" 

"Presidential," Scott says. 

"Not as a Christian name." 

This starts Scott off on a nomenclature tangent, so Stiles stops listening. In the first pause for breath, Stiles interjects, "Seem to you there's been a lot of bodies lately?" 

"Two," Scott says. "That's not so many. Hey, do you think that was Allison's sister?" 

"Aunt," Stiles says, "Kate Argent had a brother. And you're assuming an awful lot." 

"What's that?" 

"That everybody we're looking for is still alive."


	2. Den of Thieves and Dogs

Stiles gives Lisa Lane to Scott; he has the kind of face that's good at getting women out from behind locked doors. Then he goes home for the evening, but since home is a poky two-bedroom he shares with Scott it isn't all that much of a change of scenery. 

"We should go out," Scott says, peering out the grimy window at the dusky sky beyond. 

"Where we gonna go?" Stiles asks, checking the refrigerator for overlooked cans, ever hopeful. He doesn't expect Scott to have a suggestion, because neither of them have much going on at the moment, but the quality of Scott's silence makes him turn. 

"Allison's at the Janus," he rushes out, and shrugs uncomfortably. 

"The _Janus_? Really?" Scott shrugs, and Stiles caves. Unlike Lydia, he's the kind of person who does. "Oh, _fine_ ," he says, "but you're not wearing _that_." 

Scott looks down at his work uniform. "What's wrong with this? These are nice pants." 

"The only reason I let you dress like a waiter is because we don't usually eat in restaurants that have them." 

The Janus isn't a restaurant, though it serves food along with its nose-bleedingly expensive drinks. It isn't a theatre, either, though there's a corner of the room where sometimes a guy with a cello serenades the guests, and a small stage with a sign that claims there's a traditional Khmer dance show. 

"That's such a swindle," Stiles mutters. They'd stopped coming here once they'd figured out there were never going to be any dancers in beautiful costumes whirling like dervishes while they ate and drank and pretended they could afford to be here. It took all the pleasure out of paying for the privilege. 

The prices are probably the attraction for Lydia. She's ensconced in a corner booth with Allison, nodding at the sleek figure who deposits their drinks on the table. Stiles makes a beeline for her, ignoring Scott's remonstrances. 

She sees them before they reach the table, and her face darkens before it lightens, before she holds out a hand that invites his attention. They exchange greetings, and Stiles slides into the booth beside her. 

Lydia moves, but only to maintain her personal space boundaries. Allison moves to make room for Scott at her side. Stiles decides to pay more attention to the play unspooling in front of him than the one refusing to happen by his side, because Stiles may not believe in lost causes, but he doesn't believe in spending all his energy on one either. 

He's watching Allison's eager, interested face closely, so he notices when she becomes distracted, when her eyes dart away from Scott, out across the floor of the room. "Is that--" 

Lydia drains her drink and gestures for another. "I'd offer you one," she tells Stiles, "but I don't really want you to stay." 

"Thus guaranteeing that I will." 

"But I'm your employer," she says, annoyed. "Your job is to do what I tell you." 

"My job is to locate your fiancé," Stiles says, beckoning a drink of his own. "I don't answer to you beyond that." 

The cellist starts to play, and Allison takes Scott's hand and pulls him onto the small, obscured dancefloor, not even troubling to pretend she isn't getting out while the getting's good. 

"And have you made any headway?" Lydia asks sharply. 

"Not in the ninety minutes since I saw you last," Stiles says, taking a sip. "But I have the feeling I'm about to." 

She glares, and the man who's been coming across the room towards them shoves Stiles up the bench and takes a seat beside him. 

"Derek," Lydia says sweetly. "Have you met Stiles?" 

Derek doesn't care to meet anybody. He's a hulking great thing, though Stiles can't be sure whether it's his physical presence that gives that impression or just the scowl he's directing equilaterally at his world and everybody in it. Stiles has never liked bad-tempered people much. 

Stiles flicks a wary look at Lydia's smooth, smiling countenance, and back at Derek's heavy expression. It's a shame he's looking like that; the face might be quite attractive if it weren't spoiled by the glower. 

"Lydia," Derek growls. "Stop texting me." Her cheeks pink, but Derek barrels onward before she can get out a word in her own defence. "I don't know where Laura is, and I don't _care_ where Jackson is. But if it will set your mind at rest, and get you to _stop texting me,_ they aren't together." 

"You don't know that," Lydia says, fluster betraying her anxiety. 

"Laura wouldn't touch him. And if she had the bad taste to do so, she wouldn't drop off the grid to do it." Lydia stretches past Stiles to put a hand on Derek's forearm, but Derek shakes it off. "Jackson isn't here. You don't have to play those games." 

She makes a dissatisfied face, though she drops her hand and doesn't deny the charge. "They were working on something together," she says. "I know they were." 

"How do you know that?" Stiles asks. 

"What do you know?" Derek grinds out. _And why are you making me ask_ is an obvious undercurrent, but Stiles can't feel so unkind about Derek's surliness this time, because he's too busy waiting for the answer to Derek's question. 

"Nothing!" Lydia tries at first, eyes widening with blank innocence. She's very good at that. She can lie with her entire demeanour, from the arch in her brow to the tension in her hands. 

Derek regards her for a moment, then rises to his feet. "Then I don't know anything either," he says, and turns away. 

"Wait!" Lydia scrambles over Stiles in her rush to grab Derek's arm and halt his exit. 

"Well?" he asks, shaking her hand off. 

Lydia glances between Derek and Stiles, but neither of them offer her any hope of deliverance. "Fine," she huffs, giving Stiles the eyes. They're very effective, despite the petulance. "So maybe I lifted his phone to check what was going on. I mean, I am super secure, because have you seen me?" Stiles looks; Derek doesn't. It's Derek that has her attention now. "But have you seen your sister? Seriously!" 

"I don't care if you have some imaginary fatal attraction thing going on with Laura and Jackson," Derek says grumpily. "What _was_ going on?" 

"Jackson wanted to know where the money went. I don't know whose money. And Laura said she knew who it was. I don't know who, either. But Laura said it didn't matter." 

"It doesn't matter. You don't know anything." 

Lydia's chin tilts indecisively, irritation flashing across her face, and then she says, "I know Laura said the person who killed Penny Blake didn't kill Kate Argent." 

Now they're getting somewhere. Stiles doesn't betray his anticipation; Lydia and Derek both appear to have forgotten his presence, and he doesn't want to risk disturbing their flow. 

"Where does that get us? Nowhere new." 

Stiles almost opens his mouth to correct Derek, but he catches himself in time, and Derek is a little too intent on Lydia when she flares up and fires back, "Well it does! Because Laura said Kate Argent was killed by Peter." 

Her colour is high, and her defiant eyes are steady on Derek, and then Allison collapses onto the bench beside her. 

"Whew!" she says. "Scott's got some moves." 

"Oh, we missed it," Lydia says, control back in place. "Go around the floor again." 

"You can barely see anything anyway." Allison's refusal is pleasant. "And I can't stand the cello. Introduce us to your friend?" 

"He isn't my friend," Lydia says. Stiles can't tell who that's meant for, whether Lydia means to put Derek in his place or distance herself from the whole Hale family in front of the friend whose aunt the paterfamilias had murdered. "Derek Hale, meet Allison Argent." 

Derek's eyes go wide and startled, and it takes him slightly too long to lift his chin in acknowledgement of the introduction. 

Allison doesn't seem to notice, and her smile is sweet and unsuspecting. "We haven't met. Why haven't we met before?" 

"We don't run in the same circles." 

"And why's that?" 

"Because running in circles just leaves you chasing your tail." 

Derek quirks an awkward smile at Allison and shoves out of the booth. 

"Wait!" Lydia protests. "It's your turn. Spill!" 

"Oh," Derek says, surprised. "I don't know anything. Why would I have come to shake you down if I did?" 

Lydia shuts her mouth with a snap and settles herself deliberately back into her seat, feathers obviously ruffled. Derek gives a short laugh as he walks away. 

"Well!" Lydia says, turning to Stiles. "I'm in the mood to move. You know what they say about the one who brought you. And why else would you have come here?" 

She extends an imperious hand, and Stiles takes it and leads her onto the dance-floor. They stay where they are for the rest of the night, and they spin and laugh and glitter under the lights, revelry trapped in amber almost before it's past. Stiles twirls around the room with Lydia in his arms, watching Scott and Allison edge closer together as the night draws in, faces reflecting a budding glow, and he forces himself to think about the way Allison's eyes had followed Derek as he left. 

It's in their shared cab home that disaster strikes. 

"I'm so bored," Allison says. 

"You didn't have a good night?" the cab driver asks. 

"You didn't have a good night?" Scott asks, hilariously concerned. 

"It was fine. It was the same as every other night. I need something to do. I need something to do with my life. I don't want to do _this_ with my life, I don't want--" Her face is briefly distressed, before it snaps back into focus. "I should've done post-grad." 

"I told you," Lydia says, giggles, looks aghast at the undignified sound, and then giggles again at her own horror. 

"You did," Allison agrees. "I should have listened. Maybe I wouldn't have ended up here." 

"Nothing wrong with here." Lydia reaches across Scott to pat Allison on the knee. On her hand's return trip, she catches sight of her engagement ring and holds her hand up to coo approvingly at it. "See? Nothing at all." 

"What did you study?" Scott asks. 

"Anthro," Allison tells him, "And I maintain that it would've clued me in to where I was going to end up if my family wasn't so weird. My mom says I didn't study hard enough, but it isn't my fault! It's just that my family is so freaking--" 

Stiles is interested in this line of conversation, but the cab pulls up in front of Lydia's apartment building, and Allison breaks off, leaning across to press a tired kiss to her friend's cheek as she exits the car. They idle while she gets inside, and then Allison says, "I wanted to be a lawyer anyway. I need to go back to school." 

"No," Scott says, "You need to get a job." 

"You do need to go back to college," Stiles agrees. "I think law would suit you." 

He's trying to think of a way to parlay that into seeing Allison again so he can pump her for information on her family and her dead aunt. He'd like to claim to be smooth at achieving such trifles, but nothing like this has ever come across their threshold before, and Stiles is doggy-paddling into deep waters. 

"Thanks," Allison starts, bright and engaged, but Scott interrupts, saying, "You need a job and we need a receptionist." 

"Do you?" Allison asks, swaying slightly against him, blinking blankly into the distance. "I might need a job. I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow." 

"You do now," Scott says cheerfully, and then the cab rolls to a stop in front of Allison's place before Stiles can argue. Scott assists her out, avoiding Stiles' glare. 

" _Hell_ ," Stiles says, partly because he isn't sure he wants to argue and it stings a little that Scott came up with the winning move without even trying, but mostly because now he has to figure out how to pay both Allison's wages _and_ her cab fare. 

*

When Stiles arrives at the office the next morning, Allison greets him happily. 

"Welcome to the Stall Detective Agency!" 

"Oh my _God_ ," Stiles marvels. 

Allison falters. "Did I do it wrong?" 

Scott pops up, wrathful as an avenging angel. "No! No, you did it perfectly." And then he drops the authoritative front and whines, "Stiles, tell her!" 

"Perfectly," Stiles confirms crazily, and backs the hell away from her blinding smile. The light reflecting off her teeth is giving him a headache. "I'm just going to--" 

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder and disappears back down the stairs. He'll figure out Allison's deal when he's less hung-over. 

* 

Stiles gets halfway to Lisa Lane's motel before he remembers that he passed her over to Scott. Since he's already out, he plugs an address into his GPS and takes a little diversion. 

Rivenden House is an unprepossessing erection. It's large, sure enough, but beyond that it's got beige paint covering up its solid brickwork, a flat roof, and a dozen dirty windows staring back at him. Their eyelids are closed, shutting the world out; every single one has a lowered blind concealing whatever lies inside. Stiles wonders whether this is the usual state of things, or whether Laura Hale's absence is making itself felt. It looks like a house of mourning. 

There's no doorbell, but there's a goldplated knocker in the shape of a wolf, brightly polished in contrast to the rest of the house. The sound echoes when Stiles makes use of it. 

He isn't left waiting on the step long, but it's long enough to make him twitchy, and he's speaking as the door swings open in response to his summons. "Hello, I'm--Erica!" 

Her mouth curls in amusement. "Then who am I?" 

"Ravishing," Stiles says. "That's what you are." He thinks about kissing her cheek, but he tries not to be cruel. 

"What are you doing here?" A dog yips excitedly inside the house, noise distracting Erica, and then a ball of fluff charges Stiles. Erica scoops it up as it passes her. Stiles doesn't like small dogs, so it's a relief. "Admiral Fussyboots doesn't like you," Erica informs Stiles sadly. 

"Admiral--wait, is that a Pomeranian?" 

"Is it?" 

"Where did you get that Pomeranian?" 

"Some girl brought it over, I don't know." 

"I'm looking for a dognapped Pomeranian," Stiles asserts. "I'm not saying I think your friend lifted that thing, but--" 

"Is that why you're here?" 

Erica sounds eager, but Stiles finishes anyway. "--I think it would be better for everybody, Mr Fussypants included, if you just handed the goods over." 

Erica shoves the growling furball at him. "Oh my God, take it! I do not do dogs, okay, I am not a maid, and this little monster doesn't even need a maid, it needs a _nanny_." 

Stiles stares at the calm creature nestled into his arms, staring unblinkingly up at him. "Really?" he asks, endeavouring to sound interested as he inveigles his way past Erica and into the--damn, this place has a _lobby_. 

She shuts the door behind him. "You don't think we stole that thing, do you?" she asks, concerned. 

"I don't think you did, no." 

"I don't know why _anybody_ would want to." 

Now that the door isn't obscuring Erica, Stiles can see that she's relaxed, in pyjama pants and a tshirt and bare feet. She does look gorgeous, but that's a given with Erica. Stiles barely remembers her in high school, the few vague impressions he has of her mostly yellow frizz and caution and hope he'd ignored. But one day, after she'd returned from college, she'd shown up with everything about her perfect, caramel hair soft and tamed, slender body inviting all the gazes it was getting, eyes surprisingly alluring amidst the flattering make-up. She isn't wearing any make-up now, but she still looks alluring. She looks at home, and he wonders if she is. 

"You're still living with Boyd, right?" 

"Yes," she says, and then her eyes widen. "Yes, I am." 

She can't carry it off. 

"I didn't know Boyd was living out here." 

"Stiles," Derek growls, setting the dog off in sympathy. "What are you doing here?" 

Stiles brandishes the dog in explanation. It's a useful prop. "What are you doing with this dog, Derek?" 

Derek stares. The dog whines. "Do we still have that? Why haven't we--" 

Erica squeaks. "No! Look how cute and evil!" 

Derek's face is grumpily dubious, which is fine, because Stiles is feeling that way too. He doesn't say that, because he's afraid Erica will try and take the dog back. "This dog has been purloined, Derek! Are you handling stolen property?" 

"I don't touch that thing," Derek says flatly, shaking his head decisively. 

The dog has been whining and squirming and annoying Stiles, so he's glad when it stops. He's less glad when he realises why it had been struggling to get down when the floor at his feet is suddenly wet. Erica is laughing at him. _She's_ cute and evil. 

"I'm not cleaning that up," Derek says. 

Erica stops laughing. " _I'm_ not cleaning that up!" she says fiercely. "Just because Laura isn't here doesn't mean you're in charge." 

"That's exactly what it means." 

Erica is furious, but she doesn't argue. Her eye lights on Stiles, and his mouth is open to preemptively protest being assigned clean-up duty, since he's a guest, when another voice joins the fray. 

"Mr Stilinski." 

"Wait, are you the Sheriff's kid?" Derek asks. 

"How lovely of you to join us this day. Has Admiral Fussyboots been misbehaving?" The name sounds especially ridiculous coming from the mouth of the man descending the stairs, but he knows it, tilting his chin down as he comes to a halt in front of Stiles, giving Stiles a wry twist of the lips and Erica a quizzical glance. "Not my choice of appellation." 

Erica blushes. 

"But we haven't met." The man holds out a hand, and while the gesture is as dissimilar from Lydia's as night is from day, the intent is the same, and reality shapes itself to the will expressed by the motion. Stiles feels bones of the man's hand in his own before he's conscious of having made a decision, of having moved. "Peter Hale," the man says. "Delighted to meet you." 

Peter Hale's eyes are a light blue, too light to be as intense as they are. They're an odd fit with the rest of the man, with his slick hair and well-groomed face, with his dapper dress and genial ease and charm. He doesn't look like a killer, but Stiles doesn't suppose anybody really does. He can see how this man would make a success of the job. 

"I've heard so much about you," Stiles lies. He's getting the picture, he thinks. 

"And I you," Peter says cheerfully, holding onto Stiles' hand. "Erica mentioned you frequently when she first joined us." 

Erica blushes worse, and Stiles bites his tongue so he doesn't haul Hale out on the carpet for being a douchebag. That would make things worse, plus, Erica would probably take his side anyway, and Stiles _hates_ that. 

"Well, we were closer when we were younger," Erica says. "We all just kind of drifted apart when--" She joined a cult? "Not all of us, but--" 

"I've never been one for organised spirituality," Stiles tells Hale. "That is what you do here, right?" 

"Not quite." Peter's teeth gleam from somewhere in the middle of something Stiles thinks is meant to be a smile. He can't quite tell why it doesn't look like one at all. "My niece Laura runs this place. I suppose you could call it something of a commune. People who no longer find the world outside a place they belong come to us. Everybody needs somewhere to rest, a place to fit. Your father has investigated our operations very thoroughly, I assure you." 

Erica is rolling her eyes at him. "Come on, Stiles, relax." 

He isn't willing to take that advice from someone who flipped out during her second year of college, dropped out of school and off the grid, and _joined a cult,_ but thanks anyway, Erica. 

"Where is Laura?" 

The conversation has been boring Derek, but his eyes are suddenly fixed on Stiles, face trying to decide whether to glare. 

"I'm afraid nobody knows," Peter says regretfully, blue eyes steady and sincere. "We haven't seen her in--" 

"Seven days," Derek says woodenly. 

"--and we all miss her greatly. Are you here because of her or the dog?" 

"You're running this place in her stead?" 

"Just until she returns. Derek is her brother, but he isn't prepared to step into her shoes and take over where she left off. He isn't capable of keeping things running the way they should." 

Derek is definitely glaring now. "Laura will be back," he says harshly. 

"We all hope so," Peter says, smiling into his nephew's dark visage. "I do hope Mr. Stilinski's investigations bring us some relief. Any news would be welcome at this point. Laura is such an independent young woman, and I hesitate to say this, but the Sheriff's men haven't been very helpful. Any indication of what may have become of her would offer us respite from the agony of wondering." 

Peter Hale's sunny smile doesn't look very agonised. 

"Was she seeing anyone?" 

Derek is a distracting presence; for all his silence and stillness Stiles can feel contempt and anger radiating from his body. He hopes Derek won't move while he's here, because he's afraid violence could only follow. 

Peter huffs out a short laugh. "My niece was a grown woman," he says, and Stiles watches Derek warily for a reaction to the tense. There isn't one. "I didn't keep track of her playthings." 

"No," Derek says shortly. "Nobody regular." 

"And she could handle herself," Erica offers. "Nobody she picked up would have a chance." 

"Unexpected violence is always hard to defend against," Stiles says. "And women are always at a disadvantage." 

"Laura wasn't," Derek tells him, and then registers his own use of past tense. Stiles respectfully doesn't notice his face twist. "She's strong enough to have taken anybody she would have picked up." 

Stiles doesn't accept that, but he isn't willing to argue the point. "And when did you notice she was missing?" 

"She wasn't at breakfast," Erica says, voice small and still bewildered. "She's always at breakfast." 

"Even if she'd met somebody the night before?" 

Derek nods as Peter says, "My niece was diligent about her responsibilities here. She wouldn't have interrupted her routine by choice, and she certainly wouldn't have left us waiting with no word." 

"Who lives in?" 

"Why do you ask?" Stiles is looking at Peter's teeth again. "I assure you, your father has gone through every inch of this place with a fine-toothed comb, Mr. Stilinski." Stiles wants to ask Peter not to call him that, but he doesn't encourage intimacy with potential murderers. "Our housemates have a right to privacy." 

"Even if they might have done something to your niece?" 

"But they haven't. And I'm not willing to expose anyone to your censure." 

Erica shifts uncomfortably. 

"Why would I censure anybody for living here?" 

"I'm sure I don't know," Peter says, giving him an easy, close-mouthed smile, everything about him suggesting nothing but goodwill towards Stiles. "But you would. Your father certainly does." 

"And what's his reason?" 

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline to answer that." 

"Because you don't want me to know?" 

"Because I don't want to insult your father. A lovely man, I'm sure, but not a fan of our presence." 

Stiles has long overcome the need to defend his dad against every sling and arrow sent his way, but the impulse is always there, and sometimes his tongue is faster than his brain. "Because I'm sure you're such a fan of his." 

"We're not fond of having our home searched, no," Derek says, unfriendly. He's staring at Stiles blackly, but his anger has faded and all that's left behind is a depressingly general unhappiness. 

"I wouldn't be either," Stiles says honestly. "But then that's never happened, because there's never been cause." 

That shot doesn't make Derek any friendlier. Stiles isn't going to have any success asking to use the bathroom or trying to speak privately to Erica. He figures this is his last roll of the dice and makes use of it. "Did Kate Argent ever live here?" 

His eyes are on Peter, but it's Erica who answers, her " _No,_ " instinctive, her dismayed revulsion complete and unexpected as a slap from a friend. 

"You knew her, though," Stiles says. His eyes are still on Peter, but Peter is all unruffled blandness, not giving Stiles a thing, so Stiles catches the tail-end of a nasty look Derek is throwing Erica. She'd been beginning to make another protesting sound, but she cuts it dead, and after a moment she swings her eyes back to Stiles, shining and empty. 

"She made sure we did," Peter says, words stretching reluctantly out of his mouth, curling like taffy around them. "She dated my nephew for almost two years." Stiles expects Derek to be glaring at Peter, but when his eyes flick helplessly over, Derek is watching him, not troubling to hide the anger building up again. "It didn't end well." 

"When did it end?" 

Peter doesn't answer, for once, and Stiles doesn't think Derek is going to, but Derek grinds out, "It ended," and shoves past Stiles on his way up the stairs and out of the conversation. 

Stiles only realises his hands are clenched when the dog barks sharply and wriggles in his arms. He looks down, surprised it's still there. It's not something he would've thought he could forget about. 

"Such a volatile boy," Peter says, eyes on the empty landing at the top of the stairs. "I need to check on him. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." 

"I'll see him out," Erica says. Stiles recognises _escort off the premises_ when he hears it, so he responds to her hand on his elbow, lets her guide him quickly to the door. She hesitates on the threshold with him, sadness sweeping over her face as she strokes the dog's ears. "Bye, Admiral." 

"Want to keep it?" 

"God, no," she says, quick and honest, and shivers out a laugh. 

"Well," he says quietly, leaning close as her fingers move on the dog's fur. "There's a couch in my office." There isn't, but there could be. "You could probably even squeeze your boyfriend up on it if he needs somewhere to stay too." 

"Stiles," she says breathlessly, dark eyes flickering up to meet his, flickering as she looks at him, everything about her flickering like a bulb that's about to blow. "Please don't." 

"Erica," he starts, and she says, "Don't come back," and shoves him out the door. 

When he catches his balance and turns around, the dog is whining for her touch, and Peter Hale is watching her as she swings the door shut.


	3. Torn Apart

Stiles leaves, because there's nothing else he can do. There's a restless dissatisfaction under his skin, and it feels like a wasted trip, though he knows it wasn't, so when he climbs into the Jeep he dumps the dog in the back and hits the road, ignoring its mournful yelps. 

He gets a drive through lunch, because he didn't have breakfast and there's only so much coffee he can drink on an empty stomach. He eats in the lot and calls to check in with Scott, putting his phone on speaker so he can feed the dog a long fry. He can tell the dog thinks it's above fries by the dirty look it gives him, but it deigns to eat anyway. 

"Hello, Stall Investigations, Allison speaking." 

"Uh," Stiles says, thrown. "Hey, Allison. How are you getting on? Any work this morning?" 

"Good! Things are going well. And I got a ton done, I ordered swatches online and picked out paint for the reception area and Scott's office. He said I should check with you about your office, though, and whether we could change the name." 

"Uh," Stiles says again. "I meant, you know, any _work_. Calls, clients?" 

"Oh," Allison says, sounding much less excited. "No." 

"Great. Scott there?" She hands over the phone. "Seriously, man, you're letting your girlfriend pick out wallpaper and curtains?" 

"Paint," Scott says awkwardly. "This place needs freshening up." 

"Freshening--" Stiles sucks in a breath, exhales, and lets it go. "Those swatches are going back. I don't care if she's questioning your taste. We can't afford it. Anything on Lisa Lane?" 

"No, man, you always send me out on the hopeless ones." 

"Wouldn't talk to you?" 

"Wasn't there. Total wild goosechase, man." 

"Head back out." 

"Uh," Scott says. 

"What." 

"I'm helping Allison pick curtains," Scott whispers into the phone. "This is going really well!" 

" _Jesus,_ " Stiles says, though he's grinning at the dog as it snatches another fry from his fingers, at Scott's ridiculousness. "Is she teaching you to bake apple pie later too?" 

"I don't think she knows how to do that," Scott says thoughtfully. "And we don't have anywhere to do that here. We don't have anywhere to do that at home, even. I could bring her by my mom's, maybe." 

"Too early!" 

"Nah, my mom's never home anymore. But it would be weird being there without her." 

"Good call." 

"Maybe I could bring Allison over for dinner on Sunday and Mom could ditch her stupid boyfriend and come over too." 

"We should have met him by now," Stiles complains. "Because the only possible reason she's keeping him away from us is because she's having so much awesome sex with him and she doesn't want to cross streams and mess it up in her head and--" 

" _No_ ," Scott says. "Absolutely _not!_ " 

"--and it becomes less awesome," Stiles finishes earnestly. "The sex can never be as dirty once they've met the family." 

" _Ew_ ," Scott says. "And anyway, how would you know?" 

"Well that's why I never introduce anybody to my dad," Stiles says. "I read that in my first boyfriend's psych textbook--not in so many words, but the message was there, and I received it." 

"You've never had a relationship that lasted longer than a month," Scott scoffs. 

"You say that like I'm thirty," Stiles says. "I've got years to go before my quarter-life crisis hits, even, I'm not _supposed_ \--" 

"And most of those relationships don't deserve the description." 

"Hey," Stiles protests, thinks, and says, " _Danny_." 

"He's why I said most." 

"So are you advocating that I steal Lydia Martin away from her fiancé and marry her instead?" 

"No!" 

"Because that's what I'm hearing." 

" _No!_ " 

Stiles laughs. "Relax, dude, I can't throw my hat in the ring until I check out Lisa Lane for you. And Lydia's ringing to check in later today, and I need something to tell her too." 

"No hats!" Scott says, and, frantically, "No _rings!_ " 

Stiles hasn't stopped laughing when he says, "Tough job, but--you know how this goes," and hangs up. 

He feeds the dog the last of his hamburger and drives back out to the Horseshoe Motel. 

He thinks about Lydia on the way, about the brightness of her hair, the brightness of her dark, liquid eyes, and he imagines the sharpness of her voice if he has nothing to give her when she calls for his report. He doesn't actually want to steal her away from her fiancé and give her his own ring instead, but he wouldn't mind giving her something else. 

Scott should understand this because of Allison, but then Scott might be thinking about rings already. No, that's unfair: Scott isn't dumb enough to jump the gun like that on two days acquaintance, and certainly not with the situation the firm is in. Scott isn't thinking about rings, he's just _fantasizing_ about them. 

Stiles has better things to fantasize about. 

The noon sun is beating down when he gets out of his Jeep at the motel, and although it isn't as hot as it was yesterday he can feel sweat prickle at the back of his neck. 

There are no signs of life behind any of the windows on Lisa Lane's row, and no movement from the office, so Stiles heads over to bang on the door again. His feet stop moving when his eyes catch on Lisa Lane's window, and when he walks forward again his course has changed. 

The blinds are the wooden kind that raise and lower to reveal or conceal the room inside. One of the slats has splintered and broken, allowing him to see inside the room although the blinds are lowered. He's peering in through the inch of distance the cracked wood allows when the glass goes dark as a shadow falls over him.

"Call the sheri--" Stiles starts, despicably glad to have an excuse to turn away from the scene inside the room, and then he turns around into Derek Hale.

He doesn't have enough space to back away, but he tries anyway, and bounces off the window, back into Derek's body. Derek catches his elbows absently as he stares at the glass behind Stiles.

Stiles doesn't know why he's doing that, because he can't see what's inside from his vantage point. It doesn't encourage Stiles to feel very optimistic about his situation, trapped between a girl that had barely qualified as a case and an unexpected person of interest acting suspiciously.

After a minute, Derek steps back and looks down at Stiles' face even as his hands tighten their grip on Stiles' arms.

"Call the sheriff?" Derek asks, words coming out dully, as if he's learned them by rote. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because there's a dead body inside this room," Stiles says, "and I'm not being paid enough to deal with that."

Derek looks surprised for a brief moment, mouth parting as his eyes focus on Stiles, and then his attention is back on the room. His face didn't change when Stiles told him the contents, which probably means that he already knew.

So when Derek says, "Why don't we go inside and take a look," Stiles is already inclined to distrust, even before Derek stares at him and refuses to pretty it up, to frame it as a request or suggest that the girl might not be dead, or any of the other things that might have made the suggestion acceptable to someone else.

"All right," Stiles says. "Why don't we."

And then Derek is watching as Stiles pulls his elbow free and puts it through the windowpane so he can reach in and throw the lock with his wrist, swinging the window open.

"What?" Stiles says childishly. "Oh, so I don't often break into crime scenes in the usual course of my day, sorry I couldn't make a more professional job of it, big deal."

Derek's eyebrows don't come down, but he vaults through the window and then reaches back and yanks Stiles into the room after him.

By the time Stiles has found his footing, Derek is gazing solemnly at the girl on the bed. Stiles forces himself to look at her too, though he doesn't want to. He's never seen so much blood.

"Why was she _here_?"

Stiles wonders if Derek has forgotten he's here. He wouldn't have thought that one lonely human body could contain so much blood, so much that it's soaked through the crisp sheets, turning the snowy white almost black. That's a lie, though: Stiles knows exactly how much blood a human heart pumps. He's just trying to pretend he isn't seeing all ten pints of it, trying to pretend he isn't about to have to dive for the corner so his vomit doesn't ruin a perfectly good crime scene.

He swallows.

"Why are _you_ here?" he asks, instead of doing any of the other things he wants to do, like screaming or crying or running the hell away. Like calling his dad. "How did you know her?"

"I didn't." Derek doesn't even wait for Stiles' scoff before continuing. "I never met her. I knew she was a friend of Penny's, and I knew why she had come."

"And why was that?" 

"Because she thought my uncle murdered her friend." 

"Did he?" 

"I don't know," Derek says, and Stiles is inclined to believe him, to believe the unhappy turn of his lips, the puzzled furrow of his brow. "I wouldn't have said so, but I wouldn't have expected him to refuse Lisa Lane entry, either, and she said--" 

"You saw her?" 

Stiles could bite his own tongue out for interrupting the contradiction, and for making it a question, but Derek is speaking before he has the chance. "She left a message on my phone. Penny must have given her my number." 

"When did she call you?" 

"Late last night. I didn't get it until this morning." 

"Huh," Stiles says thoughtfully, before he can check himself, and Derek glares. Stiles is developing an immunity, he's pretty sure, because he's way less terrified this time, even though he's pretty sure none of this is giving him reason. 

"Don't 'huh' me," Derek says sharply. "That's true! And _don't_ run to your dad." 

"How come nobody ever accuses Scott of running to his mom? He's way more likely to do that than I am." 

"I don't think she's the kind of mom you'd run to." 

"Hey, she has skills with a baseball bat. Many is the time she's nearly crushed my skull with one swing." 

"Kind of my point," Derek says, and Stiles has officially lost track of this conversation. 

He's still thinking about calling his dad, so he gives his back to the bed while he asks, "Penny Blake was a member of your community?" 

"She was getting there." 

"What does that mean?" 

"It doesn't really matter." Derek twitches, an impatient, dismissive, aborted movement. "She wasn't one of us yet, but she would have been, if she'd lived." 

"Is there some kind of process involved in joining your cu--community?" 

Derek has caught Stiles' slip; his eyes are distantly amused. "In a manner of speaking. She would have joined us next weekend." 

"She had to complete some kind of ritual before then?" 

"I'm not talking about this." 

"Or some kind of training?" 

"No." 

"So a ritual, then--" 

"No!" Derek's voice is a frustrated growl, and his body is suddenly close and tense against Stiles, but his hands, clenching and releasing at his sides, _stay_ at his sides, so Stiles isn't worried. "I'm not--stop _asking!_ " 

"So what did Lisa Lane have to say?" 

Stiles would press Derek for a real answer on the question of ritual--his dad would surely want to know if anyone here were having sex on an orgy altar, as long as that person were not Stiles, because he never wants to know about the stupid shit Stiles does anymore--but he also needs to know why Lisa had contacted Derek, and he can smell the blood hanging heavy in the air, cloyingly sweet and sickly, and he needs that answer now. He needs to get out of here. 

He doesn't move, watching Derek as Derek weighs his words. 

"She thought Peter had killed Penny, and she thought I would help her because he'd killed my sister too. That's what she said. That I would help her because of Laura." 

Stiles watches the line of Derek's throat, the jerky movement under the skin as he swallows. His eyes are wide and dark as they stare over Stiles' shoulder at what's left of the girl whose last words might have been to his voicemail. 

"She didn't have any proof," Derek says. "She wanted me to get her in so she could get some." 

"You're already in," Stiles says, and then Derek's eyes are wide and dark on Stiles' face and his breath is shuddering against Stiles' mouth. Stiles prickles unexpectedly, surely just at the unexpectedness of it, at Derek's vibrating nearness, at the startled consideration spreading into Derek's eyes. 

Stiles doesn't know why Derek would be startled; he has to have given thought to investigating his own household. 

Laura had done more than think about it. 

Derek steps back, and then Stiles is prickling at the lack of warmth, the sudden distance. This one isn't as enjoyable. 

Stiles takes a deep breath to steady himself and gags on the taste of blood at the back of his throat. 

"Come on," Derek says. "We shouldn't be here when you alert the authorities." 

They're halfway across the parking lot when Derek stops walking. Stiles is distracted, wondering why Derek is sticking so close, wondering how he got here and if he has a car and if he's expecting a ride home from Stiles like Stiles is some kind of _chauffeur_ , so it takes him a couple steps to notice. 

When he turns around, Derek is staring at the dogs in the car. 

"They let you keep animals in motels," Stiles says blankly, and then, "Do you think they've been there all night?" 

"She was never getting her deposit back on that thing anyway," Derek says. 

Six eyes stare back at him with hopeless appeal, and Stiles has already broken one window today, and that's how Stiles ends up with three more dognapping retrieval fees. 

"Why was she kidnapping dogs?" Stiles asks Derek again later, when they've reunited the last lapdog with its owner, a small, fluffy woman who proved to be even more excitable than her Bichon Frise. They're back in their booth at the Janus; Derek hadn't had an opinion on venue, but Stiles still has that kernel of futile hope that someday, there will be dancing. "Because I get klepto, okay, but there's klepto and there's klepto, and then there's _dogs_ , which you have to _feed_ and _walk_ and scoop _up_ after, and dogs aren't all that shiny, unless you count their collars, and surely a collar is _way_ easier to steal than the whole _dog_ that comes with it." 

"I don't know," Derek says again. He's lying. Stiles knows he is. 

Derek is really good at playing dumb until he looks you in the eye and everything about him changes. 

Stiles hasn't ferreted out the truth only because there are more important things to discover than why Lisa Lane had thought dogs would help her find a way in, and Derek is Stiles' way in, so he can't alienate him before he discovers those things. 

_Then_ he'll make Derek tell him about the dogs. 

"Her throat was torn out," Derek says abruptly. "Penny's, I mean." 

"I know," Stiles says slowly, playing with the drink in front of him. He'd known Derek hadn't meant Lisa, because Lisa's throat hadn't been torn out, Lisa had been torn apart. His father thinks they were killed by the same person, and if that's true the escalation is concerning, particularly if Lisa had been a comparative stranger. 

It's odd, thinking of her as Lisa now, like he'd known her. He hadn't thought of her much at all when she'd been alive, and now he keeps thinking about her mother's voice, and the library books in her car, and her _name_ , because his mind stutters and retreats whenever he tries to think of her the only way he's ever actually seen her. 

"I've never actually been part of a murder investigation," Stiles offers impulsively, because he knows he's going to be awesome, but there's no harm in lowering expectations. That will make his eventual triumph all the more thrilling. 

"I have." 

"Oh." 

Stiles is drinking a sidecar, mostly because Derek is paying and Stiles hates wine, but also because Stiles loves sidecars, loves the rich, bitter hit of all that lemon and sugar, the sour and the sweet mingling into a sharp mess that his mouth isn't sure what to do with. Stiles also loves sidecars because it feels like he should, but that reason he doesn't think about so much. He knocks his drink back before he asks, "How did your family die?" Derek looks at him like he's stupid and waves for another drink. Stiles' tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, and he has to force himself to add, "Did your uncle kill them?" 

"No," Derek tells him disdainfully. 

Stiles has been working as a private investigator long enough to be accustomed to disdain, so he's surprised by the sharp sting. He has to remind himself that Derek isn't his friend, that Derek paying for him doesn't mean Derek wants to be anything to him, just that Derek wants something from him, and probably not anything Stiles would be willing to give. And Derek may be running a tab, but he's probably going to stick Stiles with it at the end of the night. Stiles is lucky those people this afternoon loved their dogs so much. The reward money will keep him in sidecars all weekend. 

The waiter noiselessly deposits another glass in front of him. Stiles doesn't take his eyes off Derek. 

"So who did?" he asks casually. 

"Kate Argent," Derek says. The words appear to surprise him, but as Stiles watches his face firms, resolves into determination. 

Stiles believes him. 

"Is that why your uncle killed her?" 

"He wouldn't have done it for any other reason." 

"You're really bad at being cagey," Stiles says. 

"Excuse me?" 

"You probably just need more practice. I got a lot of it with my dad, which has come in useful in my chosen profession, not that he wants to hear it. Scott started off on the back foot, because he always just used to tell his mom everything, he was awful. And she always used to punish me, too--" 

"Huh," Derek says thoughtfully. 

"--which was really unfair, because the one good thing about being alone so much was that I could do whatever I wanted." 

"Does it count if you're allowed?" There's something wistful in Derek's voice. 

"Was Laura a rule-breaker?" 

It takes a moment too long for Derek's answer to come, and Stiles is wondering why until he hears the tense change, and the forced calmness in Derek's voice. "Not really. She's always had too much responsibility to be able to--" 

Probably tried to make him behave, Stiles decides. Derek's expression flickers, unhappiness bleeding through from the depths. When his face settles, it's into a pained grimace, though Stiles doesn't think Derek realises that. 

"She's never just done what she wanted to." 

"Maybe she is now. Maybe she's off somewhere on her own--" 

"No." 

"Maybe your uncle killed her." 

"No," Derek says again, and he sounds just as sure as he had the first time. "Laura wasn't--" Derek's voice deepens with anger as he corrects the slip. "She isn't his enemy. He'd like her status and wealth, but he wouldn't like the price he'd have to pay, and there isn't enough left of the family to make it worth his while. He's comfortable where he is." 

Stiles wonders if Peter Hale had been stealing from his niece, but he doesn't ask, because if Laura had said it didn't matter it doesn't. "He's a killer." 

Stiles doesn't recognise the change that comes over Derek at that, and he's glad of it. 

"I would have killed her too, if I'd had the chance. Peter didn't tell me she was in town until she was already dead." 

"Wow," Stiles says. "That's some good uncling there. Killing people so you don't have to." 

"It was," Derek agrees, "But I'm sure he enjoyed it." 

Stiles finishes his drink too quickly, and when he looks up, Derek is watching him with sharp amusement. Stiles gestures for a replacement before Derek can, and ignores the laugh Derek huffs out. 

"So if your uncle wouldn't move against her who would?" 

"The Argents," Derek says without hesitation. "The brother." 

"I need to meet him," Stiles decides. 

"You will. Since you hired his _daughter_ to work as your _secretary_." 

"Sometimes a plan comes together," Stiles says optimistically. "Like this thing, with you. You need to get me inside your house, because I need to subtly interrogate your uncle and also his minions of the cult." 

"We're really not a _cult_ ," Derek says, but Stiles waves him off. 

"You have other cult-members, right? Because I feel sure one of them may have _snapped_ and--but I can't picture Erica snapping, you know?" 

"It's the Argents," Derek says. "You don't need to interrogate anybody." 

"I do," Stiles says stubbornly. He's never gotten to interrogate anybody before, and he's becoming attached to the idea. 

"Plus I don't really want you sticking your fingers in there." 

"I'm hurt," Stiles says flippantly. He kind of is, which is possibly a sign he should stop drinking. He doesn't, because he isn't drunk as much as he is exhausted, utterly worn out from everything this day has flung his way, this included. 

"You'll just mess everything up." 

Stiles can't tell what Derek's face is saying, but he's listening anyway, and he's pretty sure he likes what he's hearing. When he leans forward, Derek shifts to meet him, and his knee under Stiles' hand is pleasantly warm and steady. 

"My fingers don't mess up," Stiles says, assured. "My fingers are ninjas. They have skills." 

"Okay," Derek says. He leans backwards, but his knee stays where it is, which is good, because Stiles likes it there. 

"Nobody ever complains about my fingers." This is true. Danny had at one time sung their praises to the heavens, although that _may_ have partly been due to the unfortunate fact that Stiles hadn't quite mastered the art of the blowjob. 

"Okay," Derek says. 

"Still haven't," Stiles says sadly. "Some people have no patience. Plus, they keep dumping me." 

"What?" 

"Well, not keep, because the second time, it _kept_ , you know?" 

"No." 

"But my fingers are awesome. I've been told." 

"Okay." 

Something in the tone of that last repetition makes Stiles aware that he may be embarrassing himself. 

"My meringues are the awesomest," Stiles says fervently. "And it takes a lot of finger action to get all that whipping done." 

"Wrist action," Derek says. "Also useful." 

"Right. I should make meringues for Sunday dinner with my dad. They taught us in school, but Scott wasn't paying attention, and he loves them." 

"Does he," Derek says dryly, and, "Does he have Sunday dinner with you and your dad?" 

"Yeah. His mom doesn't come much anymore." 

"He doesn't talk to her much." 

"She used to judge my meringues. Not out loud, but it still counts." 

"Obviously." 

"Because they're the only thing I know how to bake. Like it's my fault Scott dropped Home Economics after a month. What was I supposed to do, take it _alone?_ " 

"Obviously not." 

"Because I don't do that. Will you come home with me?" 

"Okay," Derek says. "Let's go." 

He's hauling Stiles to his feet while Stiles tries to decide what Derek meant by his acceptance, or even what Stiles meant by the question. 

"You can stop dragging me," Stiles says, but Derek doesn't. When they get outside, Stiles brushes Derek off, because he can walk. He's walking in the vague direction of the place he thinks he remembers parking the Jeep when Derek starts poking him. Stiles allows the touches to determine his heading, because he's distracted, struck by sudden inspiration. "I should come over undercover tomorrow. We should--" 

"You should come over with Scott," Derek says, and opens the passenger side door for Stiles. "That would be helpful." 

"Scott is not helpful," Stiles says as Derek rolls him into the soft seat. "I bet this seat is really bouncy." 

"Bounce," Derek suggests, but his voice is amused enough that Stiles knows he shouldn't. "Seriously, bounce." 

"No." Stiles tries for dignity, but his aim is shot. "You're not driving me home." 

"I could drive myself home and leave you to sleep it off in the car," Derek offers. 

"This is a nice car, right?" 

"Yes." 

Derek's answer is definitive, but Stiles sounds him out about it anyway. "I don't know much about cars apart from how to photograph a license plate, but this car is pretty cool, right?" 

"Very, even." 

"And expensive, too, right? Because cars tend to be expensive when their owners get all the chicks." 

"Chicks?" 

"Yeah, chicks," Stiles tells him. "Although maybe not with the car, because--" He waves vaguely at Derek, at the solid, tempting mass of his body in the driver's seat. "--obviously. Unnecessary. Obviously unnecessary assistance. Unfair." 

He closes his eyes briefly and then slits his lids to glare at Derek, but Derek is looking back at him, eyes open and curious before he looks away, out at the dark road ahead. 

The glare never quite becomes reality. 

"Unfair advantage," Stiles murmurs. Derek blinks in response, but his gaze stays fixed on the landscape outside, and Stiles lets his attention drift. "Where are we going?" 

"I'm taking you home, remember?" Derek's voice is low, barely pitched over the quiet rumble of the engine. 

"To your house?" 

"No." 

"You can't take me to my apartment," Stiles protests. "You don't know where it is." 

Derek's eyes flicker back to him shiftily. The sudden suspicion forces Stiles to blink himself alert. 

"Lydia told me," Derek claims. "Allison told her, and you'll have to figure out how Allison knew yourself." 

Stiles is too hazy to figure out whether he believes that, but he settles back down anyway, because now that he's thinking about it he's safer with Derek dropping him back to the shoebox he shares with Scott than taking him back to the cult-lair anyway, and he can't really care too much about the source of Derek's information right now. 

He blinks sleepily as the stucco building draws closer, and then he's jolted awake seconds later, as Derek manhandles him out of the car. 

"I can walk!" he insists, though truth be told, his legs are still a little jellylike, half asleep under him. He's not entirely annoyed that he doesn't have to trust his weight to them. 

"I'm just taking you up, calm down." 

"I can get myself up!" Derek pauses to look around inside the lobby, omniscience not extending to the location of the stairs, so Stiles throws his weight in the direction of the elevator. "We are _taking_ this thing, man," Stiles says, "because you were totally going to try and carry me up the stairs, right?" Derek looks struck by this bright new idea, which causes Stiles to barrel on through the despair. "And that is not going to happen, because this building has a _service elevator,_ thank Christ." 

Derek holds the button for Stiles' floor down as the machinery slowly moves around them and the metal box encasing them inches upward. He'd had to ask Stiles the floor, so Stiles is relaxing about the potential stalkerism of this whole encounter. 

By the time the glass door leading to his floor comes into view, Stiles is completely relaxed, slumped boneless against Derek with one arm thrown around his waist for support. And warmth. The warmth is nice too. 

"Maybe we can just sleep here," Stiles suggests, words slurring a little with tiredness. "Nobody uses this. It's quicker to walk the six flights." 

"I didn't bring you all this way so you could sleep in an elevator," Derek says, sounding hilariously outraged. "Even if the carpet probably is softer than your mattress." 

"Hey," Stiles says, not protesting the truth of that as much as the realisation that Derek knows it to be true. 

Before he can work up to a retort, Derek is shouldering through the door and looking around in accusatory puzzlement. Stiles gestures them towards the right door, and then Scott is opening it. 

" _Dude_ ," Scott says, face crinkling in dismay as he looks between Derek and Stiles. "What are you doing here?" 

"I'm not drunk," Stiles states. "Wait, I'm going to bed here. That's what I'm doing. Because I live here. You know. Why are you bothering me when I'm on my way to bed, Scott?" 

"I'm getting him inside," Derek says, somewhere over Stiles' head. 

"I can take it from here," Scott tells him, face dark and disagreeable. Stiles isn't sure why he's so grumpy, but it's harshing his buzz, so he sticks close to Derek, which is handy, since Derek is dragging him through the doorway, shoving past Scott. 

"I'm getting him inside," Derek says again, and Stiles only gets a brief glimpse of Scott's face as Derek pulls him past his friend, but the dislike in it is surprising enough to stick with him all the way into his bedroom. 

"Because you take care of people so well, don't you," Scott says, voice full of useless anger. "Sisters, mothers, friends--" 

Derek shuts the door behind himself, and Scott's voice stops. 

"Uh," Stiles says, blinking in bafflement. 

"He doesn't like me much," Derek says, head tilting as he watches Stiles. Maybe Stiles is just swaying. He wants to sit down on the bed, but Derek is standing much too close, because there's nowhere else to go in the small room, and Stiles can't talk himself into backing away. 

"I didn't even know he knew you." 

"He doesn't usually admit to it." 

Stiles thinks about that, and he tips his head back a little and lets his thoughts drift to the picture in front of him, to the rough expanse of Derek standing there, filling all the space Stiles has, and he wonders what the stubble prickling Derek's neck would feel like under his tongue. He tilts his head back further before his thoughts run away with him and he finds out, but then he's looking into Derek's eyes, and that might be more dangerous. 

He's breathing against Derek's skin, he thinks, deep, unsteady gulps of air shivering out of him unsteadily, and Derek is looking down at him, still and sure in every way Stiles isn't. 

Derek still has a hand wrapped around Stiles' wrist, so Stiles can think about lifting his head a little more and reaching up and finding out what Derek's mouth would feel like instead, can think about trying that and lean back at the same time, because Derek's grip is securing him, keeping him steady. 

Even now Stiles knows these are stupid thoughts, because when his mouth opens what comes out is, "What's so bad about you that Scott doesn't want to know you?" and then Derek has released him, and he's falling backwards, and his mattress is too soft underneath his thighs. He needs a new one. 

He goes back on his elbows and keeps looking up at Derek. He wants an answer. Derek tugs at his shoes instead of giving him one, pulls until they slide off and drops them carelessly on the floor by the side of the bed. 

"Go to bed," Derek says evenly. "And then bring him over tomorrow and find out." Derek is staring down at him, and Stiles' heart jumps when Derek takes a step forwards, but it's only so that he can swing the bedroom door open and disappear. 

Stiles tries to listen to Derek leave the apartment, but he's quiet enough that Stiles can't hear a thing, not even the usual groan of the front door as it opens. 

He hears his bedroom door scuff the carpet as Scott shoves it wide, though. 

"Hi," Stiles says. 

"I don't know what you're thinking," Scott says. There's something familiar about the resentment in his face, but Stiles can't place it. "I don't know what you think you're doing." 

"We'll find out tomorrow," Stiles tells him easily, and climbs under the covers to go to sleep, pulling the covers up to his chin. 

"How can you be so _stupid_ ," Scott says furiously, and slams the bedroom door. 

Stiles blinks in reaction, and thinks about getting up and trying to figure out what's going on, but he knows he'll have a much better chance of that in the morning, and he knows Scott will be more receptive to an olive-branch after stewing in his own juices for a while, so he shuts his eyes and tries to stop thinking, and eventually his brain cooperates and lets him fall asleep.


	4. Kitchen Sink

When Stiles wakes, he doesn't remember any dreams he might have had, which is a blessing, because his waking hours always seep into his dreaming ones, so they were sure to be full of Derek looming close and Scott scowling, but his dreams never do what he wants them to, so Scott probably started crying like when they were kids, and his room was probably even smaller, forcing Derek still closer, but Derek probably pulled out an axe instead of kissing him. 

Or maybe his face just melted off. 

Stiles' dreams have form. 

He can't stop picturing really disgusting things happening to Derek now that the idea has occurred to him, so he rolls out of bed to get away from the skin sloughing off under his fingers, leaving exposed red muscle waiting for a touch; the bile spilling out of the mouth kissing Stiles. 

Stiles has these dreams about everybody, and he'd never be able to look anyone in the eye if he couldn't deal with them, so he shakes it off and goes to brush his teeth. 

Scott is banging around in the kitchen when he finishes. The noises are loud enough that Stiles knows they must be deliberate. 

He joins Scott at the kitchen counter and asks, "Enough Special K for two?" 

"No," Scott says, and puts the milk back in the refrigerator as punctuation. 

Stiles gets it back out again, but the carton is almost empty, and there isn't enough for another bowl. 

"Guess it's lucky we're going out for breakfast," he says brightly, futilely trying not to remember Derek in proximity to his bed where Scott can divine which way the wind is blowing. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Scott grumps, but Stiles tells him it's work, which is kind of true, so Scott lets himself get dragged to the Jeep and Stiles lets him bring his breakfast cereal along for the drive. 

By the time Scott has finished chasing the last red berry around the bottom of the bowl and knocked the remaining milk back they're coming up to their turn off; Scott looks up with an eager curiosity, but his face darkens when he realises where they're headed. 

"I'm not getting out of the car," he tells Stiles pettishly. 

"Want me to crack a window?" 

Scott throws him a disconcerted look and the his scowl returns, deeper than before. "That isn't funny." 

"Lighten up. What's your deal?" 

"No deal," Scott says. "No nothing. This is just nothing at all. It doesn't even matter." 

They're going to be outside Rivenden House in a minute, and maybe Stiles should have put a little more thought into this, because it's only now that he's starting to wonder if Allison is sleeping with Peter or something, and now is far too late. 

"You didn't even ask me about Lisa Lane." The discomfort in his voice is mirrored in Scott's eyes. 

"I heard they found her. But you're not investigating the murder, are you?" 

"Her parents paid me already," Stiles says. Scott is staring out the window away from the house as they pull up in front, so he offers, "It's our first body." 

"Your body," Scott says, wrenching open the door almost before Stiles has rolled to a stop. "Nothing to do with me." 

"Fine," Stiles yells over the hood of the Jeep as Scott storms away. "You do whatever, I'll just go inside this highly suspicious establishment and share a cup of joe with our prime suspects on my own!" 

Scott stops dead, which is more than Stiles had expected, and then he turns around and storms back over. 

"People can hear you," he whispers loudly. "Shut up!" 

He flounces his way up the steps and bangs on the door before Stiles can catch up. Derek answers it immediately, but he ignores Scott entirely and waits for Stiles to jog to the door before jerking his head backwards and saying, "In the kitchen." 

Scott is shifting, shoulders and fingers twitching, eyes staring straight ahead, avoiding Derek and Stiles both, but Derek is striding across the hallway, and Stiles and Scott fall in behind him, dragged along in the wake. 

Stiles smells coffee before he sees anything, and he's distracted by his watering mouth, by the hand that has risen without permission to put pressure on Derek's shoulder, propelling him in the direction of the scent of caffeine, so it takes a moment longer than it should to register the group standing in the kitchen. 

Erica, Boyd and Isaac are clustered around a woman holding a huge cafetiere of coffee. It isn't Allison. 

"Hi, Mrs McCall," Stiles says. "Got enough for two more?" 

Moms always do. 

Melissa pours a cup for Stiles, and then she pours another for her son. She has to wait a lot longer for Scott to take the cup from her hand, and when he does he avoids her eye, moving away deliberately once the cup is in his grasp. 

"So, Mrs McCall!" Stiles says brightly, breaking the awkward silence. "You joined a cult! I did not know that." 

"Stiles!" Erica hisses. 

"Seriously, Stiles?" Isaac asks. 

"Thought better of you too," Stiles tells him. 

"Stiles is never serious," Melissa says dismissively. Stiles manages to hide the wince. "And this isn't a cult. I would not join a cult, Stiles." 

"No," Scott agrees, "You'd just abandon me for some guy with--" 

"You're not a child, Scott!" Melissa's voice is furious and distraught at the same time, and it's a painful thing to hear. "I didn't _abandon_ you!" 

"Wow, are we listening to this?" Stiles asks, before his detective instincts kick in and tell him to shut the hell up. He ignores them. "Really?" 

"We're not doing this at all," Scott says, and then, in a sudden spurt of anger at Stiles: "You made me come!" 

"Ah," Stiles equivocates, and glares at Derek, who isn't giving anyone anything, all his attention on his coffee. "I suppose I did. This wasn't the intended consequence. So, Mrs McCall, you're, like, dating Peter Hale? That's awkward." 

"It isn't awkward!" she protests. "I've been dating Peter for a long time, and we are in a stable and committed relationship. The fact that Scott couldn't handle the changes that came with it--" 

" _Changes_ ," Scott rages. "Changes. Is that what we're calling it? It's an accurate enough term, I suppose." 

"We aren't calling it anything." 

"No, really, what is the official terminology? I never did pick up on all the, you know, nuances of the whole thing." 

"Seriously, what's going on?" Stiles asks. "Anyone? Bueller?" 

"Scott," Melissa pleads. 

"But maybe I don't want to know," Stiles decides, because he hates it when moms are in pain. "Do I want to know? Maybe you two should be alone for this whole--whatever this is." Derek's eyes flick up; Stiles doesn't move. "What is this?" 

"You shouldn't be unkind to your mother, Scott," Isaac says. 

Erica and Boyd look to be in vague agreement with the sentiment. Their small, inexplicable group always seems to reach that kind of consensus, the limits undetermined but solid enough to scrape by and hold together. 

"Your mom is really nice," Erica says. 

"You should show some respect," Boyd rumbles slowly. 

Isaac doesn't offer any explanation for his opinion, but Stiles remembers Isaac's mother, a small, meek woman who'd done her pathetic best to look after her son until she had died, and Isaac had to try and figure out how to look after himself. 

Stiles remembers Isaac's father, and what _his_ father had had to say about the man's death, and he thinks Isaac's mother might not have been able to take much more unkindness. 

"I don't need anyone telling my son to respect me," Melissa says sharply. "I can tell him that myself." 

All her sharpness is directed at Scott now, that determined gleam in her eye, and Stiles remembers how trenchant she used to be in the face of the storm her life could become sometimes. He never paid much attention to the speedbumps that worried Scott, because he assumed Melissa would handle them. She always had. 

Scott is backing away from his mother blindly even before Peter Hale descends upon the scene. 

"Melissa," he says. 

Peter's voice isn't as loud or as sharp as Melissa's had been, but the room's focus shifts like a switch has been flipped. His fingers curl around her shoulder, and she settles back into his body. 

"Scott," Peter continues. 

Scott backs up into a wall, and coffee splashes all over his fingers. He reaches out, but there's nowhere to put the cup down, so Stiles rushes to take it from him, and Scott sucks his fingers into his mouth, spins around, figures out where the door is, and exits through it. 

Stiles is left holding the coffee cup. Everybody is staring at him, though Peter's coolly appraising eyes pass over him without comment. 

"And Derek. Far be it from me to interfere in pack business, but really, unexpected guests can have such unfortunate effects. Generally, I'm always one for company, but when it is as ill-chosen as this, I do question the wisdom of extending the invitation." Derek's face is flushing. Peter's eyes slide back to Stiles. "No offence, Mr Stilinski." 

"Taken," Stiles says tightly. 

"I suppose we must be grateful that it is our leader who suffers the consequences," Peter says, arm tightening around Melissa. "It so rarely is you who bears the brunt of these little errors." Derek's mouth is open to protest, but Peter's attention swings back to Stiles before he can speak. "I understand you are under no obligation to anyone here, but I do hope we can rely on you not to speak of any of this to your father?" 

"Uh," Stiles says. 

Peter's eyes narrow slightly as his smile widens. "Your friends depend on your kindness," he says. "Your father has no love for our group, and I think--I really do believe that their futures are in your hands, Mr Stilinski." 

"Oh," Stiles says. "Crap." 

The room's focus has been flickering wherever Peter has been shining his light, mood shifting with his words, and now a desperately bright gleam is beating down on Stiles. 

"Please," Erica says, crossing the room to clutch at his arm. "Please don't say anything." Her voice lowers as she leans closer, although everybody else in the room can hear every word she says anyway. Erica has always been strongly affected by perception, and the pretence is reassuring her, he thinks. "Boyd needs his job. You have no idea how much Boyd needs that job, and I really need-- _please_ , Stiles." 

He tugs out of her grip. Her anxiety doesn't lend her force. He considers putting the coffee cups on the floor, but he hurries over to Derek and slams them into his chest instead. 

"I'm going to leave now," Stiles says. Derek's cup clinks against Stiles' as he reaches to prop the three coffees against his chest so Stiles can let go. "I'm just going to go. This has been something. Mostly awkward. This has been really awkward. And unhelpful, dude, really unhelpful." He glares at Derek again, just for good measure. "And caffeinated! That was some good coffee, Mrs McCall, thanks." He tries to smile at her in goodbye, but he can't hold her eyes, and when he glances over at his friends, things are just as awkward there. Erica is clinging to Boyd; Isaac is standing separately, smiling at Stiles as if absolutely nothing is wrong. "Bye," he says, in an agony of discomfort, and spins, diving for an escape hatch just as Scott had. 

He doesn't sprint for the door, but it's a close thing. 

His keys are in his pocket, but when he gets outside the Jeep is gone. He's only been walking for a few minutes when Derek catches up with him. Stiles takes in Derek's cool gaze and keeps walking; Derek draws up beside Stiles again and throws open the passenger door in front of Stiles, impeding his progress. 

"Get in." 

"So, my best friend's mom isn't going to let you murder me and dump my body in the woods, right?" Stiles asks. "Just checking." 

"Melissa is practically part of the family," Derek says. "But she's sort of fond of you. She'd probably be mad at me if I did that." 

"Hah," Stiles says, wishing any of that felt like a joke. "Hah hah." 

He gets in the car. 

"You want me to keep my mouth shut too?" 

Derek shrugs; Stiles watches the roll of his shoulders, keeps watching until Derek speaks and he has to pay attention to something less interesting. "It would be hard on Isaac and Boyd if you didn't. But that's not really my concern." 

"It's not all that surprising your uncle's moving in and stealing all your cattle," Stiles says. "I wouldn't want you taking care of me either." 

Derek's jaw clenches, then his eyes cut towards Stiles, sharp and knowing, and all he says is, "No?" but Stiles has to look away. 

"Boyd and Isaac?" Stiles asks. "Really? Why?" 

Derek's impatient with the question. "Boyd came with Erica," he says shortly. "Isaac's only been with us a couple of months, but he seems to like the structure, and it isn't as if he had anyone else." 

"He would have killed her," Stiles says. "Your uncle. If it meant he'd get to step into her place." 

Derek doesn't say anything to defend his uncle, and for a moment Stiles thinks he's sold Derek on the idea, but one look at Derek's face clears that up. "She isn't dead," Derek says. 

"Okay," Stiles says. "I mean, I get that, I do. I just don't think you're doing yourself any favours by refusing to face the possibility. I'm just saying it's a _possibility_." 

"I'm going to find her," Derek insists. "Where do we begin?" 

"You want me to help you--find out what happened to Laura?" 

Derek shrugs. 

"I'd suggest you start by making me an offer." 

"An offer?" 

Stiles' fingers tap against his knees, jittery, although he isn't anxious. "Yeah. I've got rent, you know." 

"Laura handles the finances," Derek says. "You can take it up with her." 

"Yeah," Stiles sighs. "Whatever. Maybe I can take it up with Uncle Peter, get an offer _not_ to go digging. He has all that money Jackson was looking for just burning a hole in his pocket, right?" 

Derek looks seriously annoyed. "Don't interfere." 

"So come on, give me something here. What was she doing last time you saw her?" 

"Nothing," Derek says, frustrated. "Nothing unusual. She was worried about Erica, she was worried about the Argents." 

"Why?" 

"They'd been hassling us, and she was worried they were going to make a move." 

"What kind of move?" 

"I don't know. I don't think Laura had any idea." 

"What's your deal, anyway?" 

"My deal?" 

"With the Argents, I mean. Do you have some kind of Capulet-Montague feud going on?" 

"No," Derek says, sounding revolted. 

"So why did they kill your family?" Asking is a risk, but Stiles needs to know. 

"They didn't," Derek says. "Kate killed my family. I don't believe the rest of the Argents played any part in it." 

"Why did Kate kill your family?" 

"Her family has problems with our way of life." 

"Are they anti-cult activists or something?" 

"Something," Derek says, sounding irritated. 

"Do they know Peter killed Kate?" 

"They blame our family." 

"So they'd have reason to want to harm Laura." 

"They wouldn't, though," Derek says, frowning. "Argent is pretty strict about following his own rules, and she hasn't given them reason to hurt her." 

"What would they take as reason?" 

"Nothing," Derek says, turning off the main road towards Stiles' place. 

"You just said--" 

"Nothing I'm going to admit to you," Derek says sharply. 

"Fine," Stiles says, holding his hands up. "Not sure how much I can help you if you're hiding things from me, though. I mean, you have read at least one detective story in your life, right? You know how this goes." 

"Better than you do," Derek says. "I bet you've never been involved in a missing person's case that wasn't a teenage runaway." 

"And now I have your sister's disappearance and a murder case besides," Stiles says. 

"How is that going for you?" Derek asks casually. "Making any progress?" 

"Plenty," Stiles lies. He's been kind of distracted by Laura and Melissa and Derek. His failure to lift a finger on the Lisa Lane thing is totally Derek's fault, and he doesn't have any reason to feel guilty about it at all. 

"What have you found out?" 

"I'm highly suspicious of you," Stiles tells him, which isn't the truth either. 

He has plenty of reason to be suspicious of Derek, but he can't quite come around to it. 

Derek grins as he pulls into Stiles' parking lot. "Office," Stiles says. Derek rolls his eyes and starts the car again. 

"That's just a display of your bad judgement," Derek says. 

Stiles glares. "Bad judgement is being in this car at all." 

"You can walk to work from here," Derek says easily, and Stiles settles firmly back into his seat with a huff. "You didn't ask the--you didn't ask any questions when you were over this morning." 

"I was _distracted_ ," Stiles says furiously. "You _sandbagged_ me." 

"With Melissa?" Derek asks. "Don't let her hear you say that." 

"I'll come over again tonight," Stiles says, exasperated, and tumbles out of the car before it's come to a stop in front of the office. 

"Looking forward to it!" Derek calls sarcastically, slamming the door. 

Stiles doesn't bother acknowledging him, glaring at his Jeep, innocently parked in its usual spot, and jogs up the stairs to yell at Scott. 

"You _sandbagged_ me," Scott says, more furious than Stiles had been. "You deserved it." 

"My Jeep didn't!" Stiles wails. "You better not have fucked up the wiring." 

"I've seen your engine," Scott says. "Your Jeep is inured to the pain." 

"Don't talk about her like that." 

Scott rolls his eyes. "Isaac called," he says flatly. 

"Oh, yeah?" Stiles asks warily, keeping an eye on Scott. "What'd he want?" 

"You to call him back," Scott says with no emotion, holding up a post-it with Isaac's number written on it, like Scott doesn't have a problem with the fact that Isaac was eating breakfast with Scott's mom this morning, and like he hasn't had Isaac's number saved in his phone for years. 

Maybe he deleted it after he stormed out. 

"Right," Stiles says, leaves the post-it where it is, and goes into his office to return Isaac's call. 

"Is Derek still with you?" Isaac asks. "He never answers his phone, Laura always answered her phone--" 

"He just left," Stiles says. "What's wrong?" 

"We got a phone call from Laura," Isaac says. 

"I'm coming back over," Stiles says, and goes back downstairs to start his Jeep by rubbing a couple wires together. It fries his fingers, but the tingle has faded by the time he gets back to Rivenden House. 

Erica pulls the door open immediately when Stiles bangs. Everyone is gathered in the foyer. Derek is striding back and forth like he's about to slip right over the edge. 

"Whoa," Stiles says, reaching out to put his hands on Derek's tense back. "Cool your jets." 

"I am _cool_ ," Derek rumbles angrily. "I am _frozen_." 

"Better than ice-cold," Stiles says, patting absently at Derek, who at least has stopped pacing. "What happened?" 

Derek growls, which is kind of worrying, and breaks away from Stiles to go over to the phone and push a button. Stiles follows him, drawing close to listen. 

There's nothing for a second, just some ambient noise, then heavy shuddering breaths that make Stiles' fingers tighten on Derek's heaving shoulder. 

"Come on," a man's voice says. "Say hello." There's no response, but the harsh breathing gets louder. "Say hello to your little puppies." There's a high, pained yelp, a laugh, and the recording cuts off. 

"I'm going to kill him," Derek says calmly. Stiles frowns, nails digging into Derek's flesh, settling against bone, but Derek doesn't move. 

"I didn't recognise the voice," Peter says. "It wasn't Argent." 

"I don't care who it was," Derek says. "I'll start at the bottom and work my way up until somebody tells me." 

"Not much to work through," Boyd says. "Not many recruits since Kate Argent died." 

"I'll make a quick job of it then." 

"Calm down," Stiles says. Derek rolls his shoulders at Stiles, but doesn't dislodge him. 

"We should be careful," Isaac says slowly. "We don't know who has her or what they might do to her if we attack." 

"Hey," Stiles says, "hey, whoa, _attack?_ " 

"Think about this. We should wait for them to contact us, right, Stiles?" 

"Uh," Stiles says uncertainly. "You're the police officer." Isaac's eyes flick to Stiles' hand, then away. "Boyd?" 

"I'd say we should see what they want," Boyd says. "But I'm not sure they want anything." 

"What do you mean?" Erica asks. 

"What do they have to gain by holding Laura hostage?" Boyd says. "We can't--" 

"That's enough," Derek says. 

"Really, Derek," Peter says mildly. "Don't you think Mr Stilinski can be trusted?" 

"Not the point," Derek says, but Stiles speaks over him, saying, "Yeah, _Derek_." 

Derek leans back so that he can frown down at Stiles, and Stiles falls back, stepping to Derek's side. 

"Don't you, Boyd? Isaac?" Peter continues. Boyd just stares at Stiles, but Isaac nods reluctantly. "And they would know. They know him far better than you do." 

"Not the _point_ ," Derek repeats. 

"I think you should be guided by your--contemporaries, in this matter," Peter says, face turning thoughtful. 

Melissa is sitting on the stairs, face pale and eyes staring as if she's submerged in some depth of water, but at that she staggers to her feet, surfaces. "Scott doesn't want--" 

She cuts herself off, flinching, but it's too late. 

"Gotcha," Stiles says. "Wonderful." 

She sinks back down, quieting again. 

"We should think about this," Isaac says. "It's a big decision to tell somebody, and the consequences could be serious. We should consider it carefully." 

"No," Erica says suddenly. "We don't need to think about it. That was Andrew Ryland. I know him. I--knew him, I guess." 

Boyd pulls her in, hiding her frightened face. 

"You should leave," Derek tells Stiles. "I'm going to find Ryland." 

"I should come with you," Stiles says firmly. 

"He's always out at Daybreak," Erica says, voice muffled until she lifts her face from Boyd's shoulder. Her eyes are shaky. "I didn't think--I never thought he'd--" 

"And now you can't stop me," Stiles says, ignoring Derek's growl. 

Derek lets Stiles ride with him, so he can't be too annoyed. Isaac slides into the backseat as Derek peels away, offering Stiles a slight smile. 

"I've never been to Daybreak," Stiles says. 

"It's not all that interesting," Isaac says. 

"It's a--haunt of Argent's," Derek says. "He probably met Ryland there." 

"You don't expect him to be there now." 

"I don't know where he lives, and I'm not going to track him down through Argent." 

"My bartender doesn't know my address," Stiles protests. 

"Catscratch knows everything," Derek says grimly. 

Isaac is silent in the back, and Stiles is inclined to let him stay that way, but they've known each other a long time, and he had always thought they could have been better friends than they were. They _should_ have been. He spins around to look at Isaac, to look at the man he really had thought was better than this, whatever it is. 

"You got your shit together after your dad died," he says, though he knows he shouldn't. 

"People were very good to me," Isaac says. 

"So maybe the neighbourhood MILFs made you casseroles for a while--" 

"It was better than I had ever known," Isaac says, and Stiles shuts the hell up. "I gained--it was like a safe haven. People were kinder than I had thought possible. I don't think anyone should be judging me for the family I chose for myself." 

"Yeah," Stiles mutters, feeling like a heel. "Sorry." 

Isaac goes back to staring out the window. 

There are no lights on inside Daybreak when they arrive, but the door isn't locked, and Derek shoves inside without pause. 

There's a lone man standing at the end of the bar, watching them enter as if he's been waiting for them to arrive. He's a plump, small man, with a pudgy face and a boxer's nose. He doesn't look old enough for his dark, curly hair to be thinning, but it's weedy, and his light eyes are sharp. 

"Catscratch," Derek says, crossing the room more quickly than Stiles would have believed possible. He blinks and Derek is still, looming over the bartender. Isaac hangs back behind Stiles, who glances over at him nervously; Isaac's tension only makes him more anxious. 

"Who's your friend?" the man asks. 

"Where's Andrew Ryland?" 

"I'm not going to tell you," Catscratch says, empty eyes refocusing on Derek. "You don't want to know, anyway." 

Derek is growling again, and this time he isn't stopping. "Are you all right?" Stiles asks, concerned. 

"You're frightening the boy," Catscratch reprimands, and the sound cuts off abruptly. 

"Hey!" 

"You want to know where your sister is," Catscratch says. "Andrew won't tell you." 

"I'll take my chances," Derek says. 

"No, you'll kill him and still not learn a thing." 

"We're not killing anybody," Stiles reassures Catscratch, although looking at Derek, he isn't all that sure of it himself. 

"That's all the lot of you ever do," Catscratch says, sounding disgusted. His eyes go past Stiles to Isaac, and he adds, "You get that from your father, you know." 

"They fired the first shot," Derek says, and, "You could tell me where she is and end this now." 

"You know I don't get involved. I make sure not to know these things." 

"But Ryland will know," Derek is saying when Catscratch gets up and turns his back on Derek, going behind the bar. 

He drops a glass on the bar in front of Derek and pours a small amount of something amber into the bottom. "Have a seat," he tells Derek, pushing the glass his way. "And stop bothering me. It won't be long." 

Derek glares as Catscratch pushes through the swinging doors at the other end of the bar and disappears, but he sits down and wraps his hand around the glass. 

Stiles takes the stool next to him, and after a moment, Isaac takes a seat next to Stiles. 

"Come here often?" Stiles asks lightly. 

Derek answers like there was a chance in hell that was an actual question. "Only for information. The company isn't very congenial." 

He sips at his drink and chokes. Stiles raises an eyebrow, surprised; Derek had seemed to have a pretty high tolerance last night. He takes the glass from Derek and gives it a try. 

"Tastes like water," he says, handing it back. 

"Can I have some?" Isaac asks. 

"No." Derek knocks the rest of the drink back, glances sidelong at Isaac and then the swinging doors, and reaches behind the bar to grab the bottle, elbow sending a black cellphone skidding across the wood. Stiles picks it up absentmindedly, but the battery is dead. 

"Give!" Isaac says excitedly. 

"No," Derek says, pouring himself a couple fingers. 

"Unfair," Isaac mutters, subsiding. "Laura--" 

"I'm not as generous as Laura," Derek says flatly, and leans over the bar, depositing the bottle back where he'd found it before knocking back the purloined liquid. It's totally not worth stealing. 

"So you're not going to do anything hasty, right?" Stiles asks. "Because I'm on your side in this or whatever--" 

"You're my employee," Derek says. 

"--even though I haven't been paid one red cent, but I'd just like to remind you that my father is still the Sheriff." 

"Remember when he taught us to use his handcuffs?" Isaac asks wistfully. 

"My father is the Sheriff, you know," Stiles reminds Derek loudly. 

Derek doesn't move, but his eyes slide sideways, and he looks at Stiles from behind long lashes. "I don't have time for a lecture," he says, which is a blatant lie, because he's sitting at a bar drinking coloured water at lunchtime on a weekday. 

"And I'm not just going to be able to let this stuff go," Stiles says, ignoring Isaac's soft scoff somewhere off to the side. "I mean, maybe I'm not a stickler for this stuff, but I'm not dirty, either." 

"Is there such a thing as a dirty private detective?" Derek asks, leaning in towards Stiles slightly, lips curving. "I thought there were only _bad_ private detectives." 

"I'm not bad," Stiles says. 

Derek's smile widens a little, and he says, "Actually, I thought your job was to do whatever I wanted you to. Refusing would make you bad, right?" 

"Have you ever read the Maltese Falcon?" Stiles asks primly. "Because I'm no sucker." 

"Sap," Isaac says. "Is that book why you went private? Seriously? _That's_ dumb." 

"I'm no sap," Stiles says. "And if anybody drops I'm straight onto my dad." 

"Do you tell your father everything?" Derek asks thoughtfully. "That sounds like trouble." 

"No," Stiles says. "But my life has disappointed him enough, and _I'm_ not going to disappoint him. I'm going to help you find your sister, but we're doing this my way. I'm not getting dragged into whatever shady crap it is you have going on here." 

Derek is looking down at him as if there's something worth his time, as if Stiles might be worth the trouble. 

Stiles doesn't know what to say, and then he's saying, "When this is over I'm telling my father about your uncle." 

Derek's gaze doesn't change until doors squeak. Stiles glances automatically at the doors at the end of the bar, expecting Catscratch to reappear, but a voice behind him is saying, "Hey, I lost my phone last--" and Derek is shoving past him, knocking his stool off balance and sending it skidding into a one-eighty that leaves him staring at Derek pinning a teenage boy to the wall by his throat.


	5. Sap

"Hey," Stiles says, he thinks, although he can't really hear anything over the soft sounds of the boy choking and struggling for breath, and his throat seems to have seized up, so maybe he just thought it. He scrambles to get to Derek before he does something dumb, like _break the guy's neck_. "Hey!" he shouts, slapping at Derek's arms, at his back. "Derek!" 

"Where is she," Derek says, low, pressing so close to the boy that Stiles can't even see his face. His voice sounds strange. "Where do you have her?" 

"He can't speak," Stiles says. "Derek, he can't speak, he can't breathe, come on." 

Isaac should be helping him, but Stiles doesn't even know where he is, can't spare the attention to turn his head and check. 

"Just tell me," Derek says. "And I won't tear your throat out." 

Penny Blake's throat had been torn out in the woods last week. Lisa Lane's throat had been torn out too, although she'd been torn apart so completely that Stiles hadn't really noticed at the time; now it's all he can think about. 

He presses his chest to Derek's back and slides his hands down Derek's arms, trying to pull his hands off the boy's neck, but he isn't strong enough. 

"Derek, come on," Stiles says, as breathless as the boy whose face he's staring into over Derek's shoulder. "You're scaring me, please. Stop. Stop." 

Derek doesn't let the boy go, but his hands relax under Stiles', and the boy sucks in a gulp of air, eyes wide and terrified. "I'm not afraid of you," he says, lie obvious, face defiant. 

"Andrew, right?" Stiles asks. Andrew nods. "Please shut up." 

"I can't," Andrew says. "He's going to kill me, he's--you can't stop him, you can't stop them." 

"Derek is not going to kill you," Stiles says, tugging numbly at Derek until he falls back with Stiles. 

Andrew's feet hit the floor and give out; he slides to the floor and has to work to get himself standing again, all shaky determination and arrogant youth. His false confidence falls away when he sees Isaac. 

"Don't let him hurt me," he says. "Please don't let him near me." 

"Derek isn't going to hurt you," Isaac says, but Andrew is shaking again, turning to Stiles. 

"He killed her and he'll kill me, you're all in on it together, you're going to--" His voice is rising, high and hysterical. "--going to kill me, please, please--" 

"Shut up," Derek snaps, and the boy does, words drying up, mouth slack and gaping. "Where is my sister?" 

It's useless; Andrew is lost to reason, eyes spinning wildly around the room. "I don't know, I don't know anything, I don't know, I won't tell, I don't--" 

"This is a fuss," Catscratch complains, calm voice impatient and displeased. "This is not what I expected of you, Derek." 

"Sorry," Derek says. 

"He's not telling you anything," Catscratch says. 

Derek reaches towards Andrew's head again. "Don't kill him," Stiles says frantically, and Derek taps Andrew's skull against the wall, sending him dropping to the floor again. 

Stiles wants to check his pulse, but he isn't sure how, and he isn't sure what Derek has done until Derek grumpily tells him, "He's fine." 

"Such a loss of control," Catscratch says, clucking his tongue. "Not what I hoped at all." 

"I don't care what you hoped," Derek says. 

"Leave now," Catscratch says, unfriendly. 

Derek turns towards the door, only to be stopped by a hail from the bartender. 

"Take him with you," Catscratch instructs. "I don't clean up other people's messes." 

So that's how Stiles ends up in the passenger seat of Derek's car, staring at the unconscious body slumped over Isaac's legs in the back. 

"He's alive, right?" Stiles checks again. 

Isaac nods, but Derek grunts dismissively, rolling his eyes at Stiles, a startlingly youthful expression of impatience. 

"He might not be once Argent gets hold of him," Isaac says softly. 

"I can call my dad," Stiles says. "We can make sure Argent doesn't get anywhere near him." 

The car pulls to a stop. "We're here," Derek says, getting out and opening the back door. 

"Where?" 

"Argent's place," Derek says, and drags Andrew Ryland off Isaac's lap, out of the car and up the driveway so that he can dump him on the Argents' front steps. 

Derek gets back in the car and starts driving. He doesn't look over at Stiles until they're two streets away. "Where do you want me to drop you?" he asks casually. 

"Office," Stiles says. 

Maybe he'll make it through some work this time, or maybe he'll finally crack open the clichéd bottle of whiskey he's had in his bottom drawer since he set up his shingle, collapse under his desk and moan as he wonders what the hell has happened to his life. 

"You're coming over for dinner tonight?" Derek says. "You still need to--" He glances at Isaac in the rearview. "You know." 

Interrogate the cult-members, right. Stiles doesn't think he's going to be doing that. 

"What time?" he asks, and wonders whether he should force Scott to attend. 

When he gets into the office, Scott is leaning against Allison's desk, smiling down at her. 

Right. Allison. 

"We need to talk," he tells Scott. 

" _We_ need to talk," a furious female voice says. 

Stiles spins around, and his heart sinks. 

Right. Lydia. 

*

"Ah," he says awkwardly, once Lydia has ensured that they are alone in Stiles' office. 

"What progress have you made on my case?" she asks crisply. 

"It hasn't actually been that long since I last saw you," Stiles says weakly. 

It hasn't, but it's been more than long enough for Stiles to forget this case _existed_. 

He never would have believed he could forget Lydia Martin. 

He has a lot going on. Business isn't usually this booming. 

"So your progress has been slight," Lydia says, frostily polite. 

Stiles seizes on the word. "Slight! Yes. It's been slight. Not worth bothering you with." 

"It bothered me to drive all the way over here when I was expecting a phonecall with an update," she says, politeness going by the wayside, frost _spreading_. 

"Sorry," Stiles says. "I'm a busy man." 

"So what slight progress have you made?" she asks, voice hardening. 

"Ah--" 

She doesn't say anything more; she doesn't have to. She arches her eyebrows, and that's enough. 

"I believe I have identified a suspect," Stiles says, suddenly inspired. 

"Who?" she asks, interest sharpening. 

"I can't say," Stiles tells her, eyes watchful on her face, the tension in her hands where the diamond still gleams out. "That would be precipitate. But I believe his disappearance is secondary to Laura Hale's." 

"Secondary?" she asks, barely seeming to comprehend the word. 

"Consequent upon," Stiles says. "Caused by. I believe the people who abducted Miss Hale may have caused harm to your fiancé." 

"That has always been a reasonable assumption," Lydia admits, and then asks, "And I'm paying you for this?" 

"For the outcome," Stiles tells her, "not the explanation." 

"That sounds like confidence," she says scornfully, eyes brightening. 

"It is," he says, a half-truth. He believes it's possible that Laura Hale may yet be alive, but he has no such assurance about Jackson Whittemore. "But regardless of the outcome, what you will be paying me for is _an_ outcome, whatever that may be. For resolution." 

She regards him steadily across his desk. "You're concerned," she says. 

"Do you know anyone who might wish to harm Laura Hale?" he asks. 

"No," she says. 

"How well did you know her?" 

"Only through Jackson," she says. "I haven't had much contact with her at all. I told you he didn't want me involved in that place." 

"Did Allison know her?" 

"Allison?" she repeats. Her face is blank with surprise, which is no great feat, but her fingers don't move and the tension in her hands does not change. A sudden frown mars her face. "Why would Allison know Laura?" 

"You did," Stiles says easily. "I thought she might too." 

The puzzlement slowly fades from her expression, and then she stands and walks to the door, heels making her fine legs something superb. Wrenching open the door, she yells, "Allison! Why does my private detective suspect you of being involved with Jackson's disappearance?" 

"Uh," Stiles says, scrambling after her. "No. No, not what I said--" 

"What?" Allison asks, face a startled mask, but there'd been a lag before Stiles saw her, so he can't really judge the honesty of her reaction. "I don't--what?" 

"I'm sure there's been some misunderstanding," Scott says, though he knows there hasn't. 

"What are you accusing me of, Stiles?" she asks indignantly. 

"No accusation," he says, waving his hands in a negating fashion. 

"Well obviously you said something upsetting to Lydia. Do you think something--" She turns to her friend. "Nothing was going on between me and Jackson! I swear!" 

"Stiles," Lydia growls. Hers isn't as realistic as Derek's, but it's still impressive. "What exactly is your accusation? Why do you think Allison knows something about Jackson's disappearance?" 

"Not Jackson's," he admits. "Laura's." 

"Laura's?" Allison asks, incredulous. "Laura _Hale's_? I didn't even know her." 

"Okay," Stiles says. "All I needed to know. Question answered. Thank you. Moving on. Please." 

Allison isn't listening. "But why did you think I knew her?" 

"Lydia knew her," Stiles repeats, somewhat frayed. 

"But why would I have anything to do with her murder even if I knew her, it isn't like I was worried _my_ boyfriend was screwing around with her--" 

"Hey!" Lydia snaps. 

"Stiles, why--" 

"Your families had beef," Stiles blurts out. "I thought you might have had a problem with her. No big deal." 

Allison stares. "We don't even know the Hales," she says slowly. 

"I'm sure you'd know better than I would," Stiles lies, and that's when Chris Argent walks in. 

"Allison," he says. "Ready for lunch? Introduce me to your friends." His eyes travel around the room, linger on Scott and land on Stiles. "I know Lydia." 

"Dad," Allison says. "Do we know the Hales? We don't know the Hales, right?" 

Chris Argent is a mild-looking man, but Stiles doesn't think the ease with which he replies is natural. "We don't have any connection to them now," he says. Measured concern sweeps over his face. "Your aunt dated one of the children." 

"Aunt Kate?" 

"Derek," Stiles says. "You met him the other night." 

"He never said. Why didn't he say?" 

"I can only imagine," Argent says, lines in his forehead deepening. "He certainly seemed to be devoted to her at the time, but he hasn't made any attempt to establish contact since our return." 

"He had to know who I was, right? How come I never met him?" 

"You look just like her," Argent says gently. "They were a couple for two years. We thought--well, that isn't important now." 

Stiles can see the suspicion bloom on Allison's face. She glances at Stiles, looking for confirmation of Derek's guilt, and he takes the opportunity to say, "She died shortly after that fire burned the Hale house down and killed everyone inside, right? That was a tragedy." 

"It was," Argent says, startling Stiles. 

"Funny," Stiles says, "so much death coming along all together." 

Argent looks puzzled, like he's wondering what Stiles is talking about, and then he says, sharply, "Much like now." 

"Dad," Allison says, with the weariness of repetition. 

"It's a shame you know so little about this, Allison," Stiles says. 

"Lunch," Argent says firmly, and sweeps Lydia out with them. 

"Call me!" Lydia yells on her way down the stairs. "I already paid you! You owe me!" 

"What was that about?" Scott asks. 

"I wonder if Argent came from his house," Stiles muses, slumping against the cloudy window, staring down at his secretary as she climbs into her father's car. "He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to use the back door, does he?" 

"What?" 

"Because a body on the front steps is pretty hard to miss." 

"A _what?_ " 

"Hey," Stiles says. "What don't you want your mom telling me?" 

Scott blinks, smiles, too late. "What?" 

"What is it you don't want me knowing about the Hales?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Scott lies, face open and mildly perplexed, eyes full of warmth and confused curiosity and fear. 

"Wow," Stiles says. "Really?" 

Scott's face changes slowly, reflecting the knowledge that Stiles isn't fooled, but he doesn't take Stiles into his confidence. 

"I'm going to Danny's for lunch," he says, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. "He wants to know what you've been doing for Lydia." 

"I'm going to find out," Stiles tells him. "I mostly hope the villain doesn't murder you first." 

Scott keeps walking. "Jackson's his best friend, you know. How's that going, Stiles?" 

"I'm not sure there'll be enough of the body left for identification," Stiles says. "Break it to him gently." 

Scott grimaces and vanishes down the stairs, and Stiles curses and grabs the office keys, locking up behind himself. 

Once Stiles is on the street, he isn't actually sure where to go; Scott has disappeared into Danny's, and Stiles has no intention of joining him. How come he's the only one without plans for lunch? 

He heads over to see if his dad has eaten yet, but when he gets there, Boyd tells him his dad has gone out to his favourite watering hole, a pub that does a great Philly steak sandwich and doesn't charge law enforcement for doubling their drinks. 

His dad has finished the steak sandwich by the time Stiles gets there, so Stiles has to order his own. He doesn't imitate his dad's drink order, though. 

"Going back to work this afternoon?" 

His dad grunts. 

"Want me to order you a coffee?" 

"I don't need coffee." 

"I won't even make you drink decaf." 

"Stiles, why are you here?" 

"So what do you know about the Hales?" 

"You're not getting mixed up with them, are you?" 

"Is there any reason I shouldn't be?" 

His dad shrugs. "Nothing we can tie 'em up with, but enough that I don't want you hanging around them." 

"What do you think their game is? Drugs?" 

"Haven't seen it. All I know is that there are too many troubled kids going out there, and now they've started coming back in bodybags." 

"This isn't the first time that's happened." 

"Hmm? Oh, the Argent girl? She wasn't exactly a troubled child." 

"You have any idea what happened to her?" 

"I looked into the boy at the time--her boyfriend. Her brother was convinced he'd killed her, maybe killed his family too." 

"Uh--" 

"I don't know about the fire, but he had an alibi for Argent, him and the sister both. They were underage when their parents died, and they were both in care for a couple months afterward." 

"Oh." 

"That's when everything started. The family was quiet, kept to themselves, but when it was just the three of them they started picking up strays." 

"Why?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Is there any sign of illegal activity? I haven't seen any, but the kids they're picking up don't have money, so there's no motive there." 

"How do you know they don't have money?" 

"I saw Erica Reyes out there the other day," Stiles says. He knows neither Isaac nor Boyd have money either, but he doesn't have any intention of betraying them to his father, even if it feels a little like betraying his father instead. "And the other kids were teenage runaways buying gas and McDonalds on their parents' credit cards." 

"Just means there's another reason." 

"You know Melissa McCall is out there?" 

"I know," his dad says wearily. 

"So it can't be anything too bad, right? She wouldn't get involved in anything like that." 

"If you say so," his dad says, knocking back the rest of his drink, "but there's a lot people will do to keep a relationship intact." 

His dad rises to his feet just as the waiter comes back over with Stiles' plate. 

"Hey!" Stiles protests. "I'm eating here! Where are you going?" 

"Sorry," his dad says. "Have to get back to work." 

"Seriously?" Stiles asks, but his dad is walking out the door, waving at Stiles over his shoulder. 

Stiles stays to finish his sandwich, because he has to eat, even if nobody will have lunch with him. 

He heads back to the office once he's finished, hoping Allison will be back so that he can speak to her about her father. He doesn't think she knows anything about her dad's issues with the Hales, but she'll be able to tell him something, and maybe she'll have shaken some new information out of her dad over lunch. 

He's considering how likely she is to have gotten her dad to crack when a black 4x4 appears suddenly in his rearview mirror, coming up on his bumper, headlights flashing. 

Stiles startles, and he isn't sure what to do, but his foot comes off the accelerator while he tries to decide. He speeds up when he realises he's slowed, but the vehicle behind him doesn't make any more aggressive moves, just flashes its lights again. 

Stiles pulls over and digs frantically for his phone, but by the time he has his dad's number on the screen he can see Chris Argent coming towards him. He doesn't dial, just checks that his locks are engaged and keeps the phone visible in his hand. As Argent approaches, he cracks his window just enough so that they can speak. 

"Hi, Mr. Argent," Stiles says cheerfully, wondering whether Argent would be able to get his hand in through the window. He wants to fiddle with it, but doesn't let himself. 

"Stiles," Argent says evenly, coming right up to the door, bending down to smile in at Stiles. 

"You wanted something?" 

The small smile stays on Argent's face as his eyes measure the small opening between glass and door-frame, flick to the phone in Stiles' hand and land on his face, amused. 

"I wanted to speak to you," he says. "We don't know each other very well, but my daughter has become quite close to your business partner in a very short space of time, and their relationship is a worry to me." 

"I'm not sure what you think I can do about that." 

"It's what I'm going to do about it that's in question." 

"Wow," Stiles says. "Okay." 

"Not only are you associating with Derek Hale, Scott McCall's mother is part of the Hale pack. I'm sure you understand why this concerns me." 

"I'm not associating with Derek Hale." 

"He murdered my sister, you know," Argent says. His smile is still in place, and it's creeping Stiles out. 

"Uh, no," Stiles says. "He didn't." 

"How would you know that?" 

"Well," Stiles says, without much hope Argent will be diverted, but Argent is already speaking. 

"He killed his entire family," Argent says. "Why are you helping him?" 

"He didn't kill his family," Stiles says. "Your _sister_ did--" 

"And he killed those girls. And my _daughter_ is not dating a member of his pack." 

"Pack?" 

"Even if McCall isn't a werewolf, his mother is, and that's just as dangerous." 

" _Whoa_ \--" Stiles says. 

"I didn't want to introduce Allison to her heritage like this," Argent says, as Stiles' eyes slowly widen in disbelief. "Scott's involvement with a werewolf pack will hurt her." 

"Are you hearing yourself?" 

"Do you not know?" Argent asks. "Did Scott not tell you?" He laughs. "Allison's a good girl. She's strong. She'll be fine. Your friend might not." 

"Is that a threat?" 

"A warning," Argent says. "You should tell him to get out of town until this is over. I'd prefer he didn't get caught in the crossfire." 

"You're crazy," Stiles tells him, hitting the button to raise his window. 

"Even if it would simplify my life if he--" 

The closing of the window cuts off Argent's voice, and Stiles peels away. Stiles' fingers are shaking a little when he hits Scott's number on his phone. 

"Hey," Stiles says, "where are you, are you back at the office? I need to talk to you." 

"Yeah. Why?" 

"You don't know the Argents, right? Have you ever met Chris before?" 

"Um," Scott says cautiously. "We've met." 

"Because the man is crazy, and--" Stiles cuts himself off as he passes a familiar car and cranks around in his seat to wave at Isaac, flag him down. 

"What did he say to you?" 

"I'll be back soon," Stiles says, and disconnects the call, doing a U-turn so that he can chase Isaac down, flashing his lights, trying to ignore how close his behaviour is to Argent's. His isn't _crazy_. 

Isaac pulls over as Stiles had, but he gets out of his car, meeting Stiles halfway. 

"What's up?" he asks. 

"How much contact have you had with the Argents?" Stiles asks abruptly. 

"Ah--" Isaac says. "The Argents? Not much. Why?" 

"Have you had any problems with him lately?" 

"Problems? With Chris?" 

"Because the man is crazy. He's a total psycho." 

"What did he do?" 

"He just chased me down to tell me that Scott's mom is a _werewolf_. He was talking some crap about the Hales being a _pack_. He's _insane_." 

"Sounds like it," Isaac says, brow furrowing. "That is crazy." 

"Has he done anything else like this before, or has he just lost it because he thinks Derek killed his sister?" 

"Oh," Isaac says vaguely. "Didn't he?" 

"What?" 

"Never mind." 

"No, wait. Do you think Derek killed Kate Argent?" 

"I never really thought about it," Isaac tells him. "But Erica said he did. Maybe she just had it off Allison, though." 

"Allison?" 

"They were friends in college," Isaac says. "Before Erica--" 

"Yeah. She never mentioned it." 

"Erica? Why would she?" 

"Yeah." Stiles frowns. "How the hell am I supposed to explain this to Scott?" 

Isaac huffs out a laugh. "I have to go, man. I'm on duty." 

"I was having lunch with my dad," Stiles says, and when Isaac tenses, "Relax, he went back to work already." 

Isaac laughs ruefully and makes some noise about getting back to work. He walks back to his car, calling out as he goes, "Don't worry about Chris, Stiles. He won't hurt you." 

It isn't himself Stiles is worried about, and as he makes his way back to the office he tries to figure out how to tell Scott that his new girlfriend's father is cuckoo and may be planning an attack on the family his mother is living with. He doesn't even want to get into the werewolf thing. 

He has to tell Derek. He doesn't know what Argent meant, how much of that was the craziness talking and how much he'd meant. _Crossfire_ doesn't sound good. 

His phone rings as he mentally slots Derek in after Scott. 

And hey, speak of the devil. 

"Derek," Stiles says. "I need to see you--" 

"I need you to come over," Derek says, speaking over him. "Jackson's back." 

* 

"Who's this?" Jackson asks, scowling at Stiles. 

"This is Stiles," Derek says, scowling at Jackson. 

"Has anybody told Lydia?" Stiles asks, because he wants to get paid. 

"Lydia isn't part of this," Derek says. 

"And I am?" Stiles asks over Jackson's undecided complaints. "I'm only here because she hired me, you know." 

"You're here because of me," Derek says, irritated, and Stiles can fill the rest in for himself, the _we haven't found Laura yet_ of it all, and he has to fill that in, because when Derek sees that he has the attention of the group he snaps his mouth shut and then says, "Because I called you." 

Melissa opens her mouth, and Stiles is afraid he's in for some motherly interrogation, but Jackson bitches, "Not really interested in whatever booty you're calling," and Derek rolls his eyes and turns back to the matter at hand. 

"You have to know where they kept you," he repeats. 

"I don't!" Jackson says, frustrated. "They drugged me this morning, and then they drove me out and dumped me on the side of the road. You wouldn't have done any better." 

"There has to have been something about the place in which you were kept--" 

"It was a stone basement in which they beat, drugged and electrocuted me," Jackson says snidely. "Any clues there, or does that sound like half the houses in town?" 

"You've healed," Stiles says. Every eye in the room is on him, and Jackson flicks a nervous look at Derek. "When did they stop beating you?" 

"Long enough ago to heal." 

"Why? Did they start making up to you? Did they ask you for something?" 

"They didn't want anything from me," Jackson tells Derek. "They wanted Laura. They want her alive and out of our reach." He glances at Stiles again, and his voice is subdued when he says, "They told me to tell you that, to tell--everyone. They know we can't function without her while she's alive, and they aren't going to kill her." 

"Oh." Derek's voice is free of emotion, but Stiles can see his face, and he moves closer, puts a grounding hand on Derek's back without thinking. Derek leans back into the support. 

Peter is frowning. "This is insufferable," he says. 

"We'll get her back," Derek says. 

"I know you want to," Peter says doubtfully. 

"We can't function without her," Derek says sharply. "They're right about that." 

"Proving my point." 

"You're proving theirs." 

"But as you said, they are right. That isn't in question. We _can't_ function right now, and you propose what? To lead us all into a battle from which none of us may emerge? From which some of us certainly will not?" 

He doesn't name names, but his eyes pick faces out, and the message is received. 

"I need to talk to you, man," Jackson says, elbowing Derek. "About Lydia." 

"Later," Derek growls. 

"I think it might be best if it were just us," Peter Hale says earnestly. "I'm sure we can do it on our own." 

Derek looks conflicted. 

"I'm coming," Melissa says, moving forwards, taking Peter's hand and tilting her head up for his kiss. 

"Me too," Boyd says, stepping away from Erica, leaving her and Isaac behind. 

Neither of them speak, though Derek waits for it. 

"Fine," he says curtly. "We'll go tonight." 

"Go and do what?" Stiles asks, and when Derek just looks at him, adds, "I'm coming too. If Mrs McCall is going, I'm _totally_ going!" 

"We can discuss this later," Derek says. "Who did you see in the basement." 

"Argent and his wife," Jackson says. "Black kid, scrawny kid, ginger." 

"Michael Paulson?" Erica asks. 

"Like I'm going to remember their names," Jackson scoffs. "D, seriously, I need to talk to you about Lydia, man, come on." 

Jackson walks confidently towards the back door, evidently expecting Derek to follow. The rest of the group breaks into their natural subsets, worried babble of conversation rising. Stiles finds himself towed along with Derek, and it's only then that he realises that they've somehow ended up holding hands. Derek shakes himself free, but he doesn't protest Stiles' inclusion in their group. 

When they're outside, Jackson strides towards the small wooded area at the end of the stretch of lawn. "Why's he coming?" he asks Derek. 

"I told you--" 

"He doesn't know anything?" 

"Jackson," Derek says repressively. "Stiles is a private detective. Lydia hired him to find you." 

" _Great_ job, man," Jackson says. "Earned your fee there." 

"He's working for me now," Derek says. "Looking for Laura." 

"And you," Stiles consoles Jackson. "Incidentally." 

Jackson scowls at him, but addresses Derek. "That might be a good idea if he were a better detective," he says. 

"Hey!" Stiles objects. "I'll have you know I have reunited a significant number of dogs with their grateful owners this week, and also? I have a _lot_ on my plate." 

"Start eating already," Jackson instructs, and turns back to Derek, dismissing Stiles. "They kept me out of it sometimes," he tells Derek as they move into the treeline. "When they weren't working me over." 

"You look fine," Stiles says, studying his unmarked skin. 

"I stink," Jackson says grumpily. "I stink of blood." 

Derek and Stiles both frown, because Jackson doesn't look like he's been bleeding at all. 

"And?" Derek prompts. 

"And sometimes they talked to each other while they thought I was out of it. They had to know Laura was listening, but they didn't seem to think she'd--" He breaks off with a grimace. 

"Yeah," Derek says stonily. 

"They said they have someone inside the--" 

"No," Derek says, but Jackson is nodding, eyes sliding away from Stiles. 

"They have someone inside the house," he says. "I'm sure of it." 

"The call is coming from the attic," Stiles says knowledgeably, and both Jackson and Derek turn to stare at him. "Haven't seen that one?" 

"Seriously?" Jackson asks, and Derek shrugs. 

"I don't want to believe anyone would betray us," Derek says quietly, moving deeper into the trees. 

"I don't want to speak ill of your family," Jackson says. "But it sure sounded like Peter was staking a claim back there." 

"No," Derek says. "Not a chance in--" He lifts his head to the air. "Do you smell that?" 

"Me," Jackson says gloomily. 

"No. It isn't you." 

Jackson lifts his head too. "Smells like scrawny," he says. 

"Shit," Derek says. "Andrew Ryland." 

"He's here?" Stiles asks, alarmed, but Derek and Jackson are already tearing through the trees, stopping quite a distance away. 

Stiles jogs over to join them, slowing as he gets nearer, because he can't see what it is they're standing over, but they're both still and staring, and he thinks maybe he doesn't want to see it. 

He keeps walking. 

Stiles would not have recognised Andrew Ryland in the mess on the forest floor. He forces himself not to turn away. He feels less like he's going to vomit this time, which is an odd sort of progress. 

"Okay," he says on an exhale. "I'm calling my dad." 

"Not yet," Derek says urgently. "We need to get our stories straight." 

" _Stories?_ " Stiles asks. "What _stories_?" 

He holds off on the call until they're back in the house, though, and then Isaac is saying, "Shit. His DNA is all over us." 

"My dad isn't going to swab us," Stiles says. 

"He will if we tell him what we did this morning," Derek says darkly. 

"When we tell him what we did this morning he'll realise there would be no point in swabbing us." 

"Would that I had your confidence in your father's foresight and judgement," Peter says. 

" _Hey_." Stiles is stung. 

"He has a problem with us," Melissa says. "He's not going to understand." 

"I barely understand," Stiles says. "And theoretically, I'm paid to be on your side." 

"I have money," Peter says. "Melissa, give Mr Stilinski some money." 

She writes a cheque as Derek glares. 

"No thanks," Stiles says when she holds it out to him, and then he closes his eyes when he catches sight of the figure on that little piece of paper. "I'm not selling what you're buying." 

"We had nothing to do with this," Peter says. "I just want my niece back. Once we have her secure, you may take that as a down-payment on the discovery of that boy's murderer, if you so choose." 

"And you have no reason to want that identity hidden," Stiles says, trying not to think of that amount of money in combination with the phrase _down-payment_. 

"None whatsoever," Peter says guilelessly. "And I'm not sure anybody will miss him, so this might be the only chance at justice he has." 

"I knew Andrew," Erica says sadly. 

"Given the track record of the Sheriff's department, he certainly isn't getting any satisfaction there," Peter says blandly. 

Stiles takes the cheque.


	6. Safe Haven

"Seriously?" Derek asks, when they're upstairs so Stiles can toss Erica's room. "You're working for my uncle now too?" 

"I'm not really working for Lydia anymore," Stiles reminds him. "I just need to shake her down for the money she owes me now." 

"You didn't even do anything! They let Jackson go!" 

"Still counts," Stiles says firmly, beginning to root delicately through Erica's underwear drawer, then dumping it all out on the bed when he sees what a mess it is, her grey cotton and hot pink frills all mixed together with Boyd's dark boxers. 

"Why are we searching Erica's bedroom," Derek says impatiently. 

Stiles looks at him pointedly. "Don't see you lifting a finger." 

"I don't do pointless crap," Derek says. 

"Erica knows the Argents," Stiles says. "She was friends with Allison in college." 

"Fine," Derek says grumpily. "But this is ridiculous, and I want my objection registered." 

He lifts one pillow, then the other, like _underneath a pillow_ is a hiding place, and then he frowns at them and picks one back up, then the other, fluffing and plumping them both and placing them neatly back down. 

"You can sit on the chair in the corner," Stiles says, checking to see if there's anything taped to the underside of any of the drawers. "Stay out of my way." 

"I can help," Derek says, affronted. 

"You _could_ ," Stiles says pointedly. "Check if the carpet comes up at all." 

"What are we looking for?" 

"How should I know?" 

There's nothing taped to any of the drawers; Stiles pulls the bottom one all the way out so he can make sure there's nothing hidden in the gap between drawer and carpet, and then struggles to get it back in. When he turns around, Derek is on his knees on the floor, bent over to test whether the carpet is properly nailed down, and suddenly Stiles is struggling not to stare at Derek's ass. 

"Man," he says appreciatively, and dives on the bed to stick his hand under the mattress. Derek looks up at him briefly, then returns his attention to the carpet, and Stiles feels perfectly free to keep checking him out. "That is unfair." 

"What is?" Derek asks, inching slowly down the wall, muscles shifting as he moves. He's in short sleeves, and his arms are unfair too. Stiles is starting to think justice is overrated. 

"That Erica makes her bed this well," Stiles says. "I need to check under the mattress, and now I'm going to have to remake the whole thing when I'm done." 

"Don't fuck up my pillows," Derek says, and lifts his head to give Stiles a grin. 

"Fuck," Stiles says. "There is something so much wrong with me." 

"You're fine," Derek says easily, like he knows what Stiles is talking about. He probably does, which makes Stiles flush in a way he's desperately sure is unfairly ugly. 

"Justice," he moans, protesting the whims of the universe. 

"I'll help," Derek says, and joins Stiles on the bed. He studies the redness spreading over Stiles' skin, which does nothing to help it fade. 

"That's something," Stiles mutters, though Derek isn't actually helping, just sitting there with his hands on the quilt between them, so Stiles can stare at them, fascinated, can trace the tension up his arms into his shoulders, and further up into his mouth, his eyes. 

"The Argents are murderers," Derek says. "Stopping them will be justice." 

"Kate was a murderer," Stiles says. "Do you really think Allison is?" 

"I think she will be," Derek says. "I think they'll make her one." 

"She's our friend," Stiles says, smiling at how ridiculous Derek is being. Derek doesn't return the smile. 

"Kate was my girlfriend," he says. "For years. And she burned my family home to the ground with my family inside it." Stiles' hand slides over Derek's on the bed, tries to offer some comfort, but Derek doesn't respond. "That's what that family does." 

"They're crazy," Stiles tries. "I mean, Kate was obviously criminally insane, but that doesn't mean Allison is." 

"I thought she loved me," Derek says, all feeling beaten out of the words by death and distance and painful knowledge. 

"Allison isn't crazy," Stiles repeats. "I mean, her dad is, okay, I get that--I met him earlier, and he was going on about you being _werewolves_ , like, legit, for real, so I get that he's crazy, but Allison is our friend." 

Derek blinks at him slowly. "I thought that about her aunt," he says, and then he cocks his head, a new fine tension running through his body. Stiles can feel it vibrate through him, is close enough to feel the change. "Peter's coming." 

"Crap," Stiles says, and looks at the mess they've made of the bed. "Should we get in?" 

He thinks that's a laugh trying to break through onto Derek's face, but there's a creak outside the door before it can surface, and Stiles rolls Derek off the bed, onto the floor, and under, tugging at the sheet to gain some concealment. 

"Shhh," he breathes. 

"They can he--" Stiles slaps a hand over Derek's mouth. 

The door opens. 

Stiles is sprawled out on top of Derek's body, but he thinks Derek's legs are too long for Erica's bed, so he taps Derek's calf with his foot until Derek bends his knees, hiding his feet and sending Stiles sliding down into the curve of his body. Stiles draws his own legs up, parted wide around Derek's body, and tries not to think about what he's doing. He can't help it. He puts his forearms on Derek's chest and pushes up a little, so he can see Derek's face, and then he can't ignore how that changes the angle of his body, sends him shoving down into Derek. He barely manages not to rock into it, barely manages to keep his shuddering breath silent. 

Derek is very still under him. 

"Oh," Stiles breathes, and he thinks that was silent but he can't know and he doesn't care, and then Derek's hands are coming up to curl around Stiles' hips, hold him there where maybe they both want him to be, and Stiles is trying to watch his dark eyes in the shadowed space he's created for them, but he can't quite make them out and maybe it doesn't matter anyway, because Derek's mouth is opening, maybe to speak, maybe to ask for something without words, and Stiles' tongue is sliding inside. 

"Oh," he says, dazed, when they part. 

"I came up to retrieve you for the discussion about how exactly we would proceed," Peter says loudly. "But I can see you're otherwise engaged. I'm leaving. You can resume your previous activities." 

"Oh," Stiles says, as his footsteps fade away, " _crap_." 

He rolls onto the floor beside Derek with a thud. 

"He's going downstairs to tell Erica we were searching her bedroom," Derek says gloomily. 

"And screwing under her bed," Stiles says. "Right." 

"It isn't funny," Derek says grumpily. 

"I know," Stiles says, grinning, and rolls back out into the daylight, dragging Derek with him. 

* 

No consensus has been reached when they rejoin the group downstairs. Stiles is afraid Melissa will be momish at him, but she doesn't seem to know anything about what Peter walked in on, which is a relief. Erica gives him a hurt look, though, and Jackson grins like the douchebag Stiles has already decided he is, so maybe she's just gotten better at hiding it. 

Stiles hasn't seen her in a while; he wouldn't really know. 

He stays out of the argument, because he isn't sure what the plan is, and he isn't actually sure this fight is his, despite Derek's warmth pressed along his side, despite the memory of how much warmer Derek can be. 

"We just need to know where she is," Boyd says eventually. "How are we going to do that?" 

There's a brief silence, then, "Allison is Stiles' friend," Derek says, and slides his heavy eyes over like they're a fist landing in Stiles' gut. 

"Crap," Stiles says numbly, but it doesn't take much at all to make him agree. 

* 

Allison isn't answering her phone, so everything is postponed until tomorrow. 

"They won't hurt her," Derek says on the front steps, words surer than his voice. "They want her alive, to tie our hands." 

Stiles isn't sure how that works, really, isn't sure how killing her now wouldn't do more to hurt Derek than anything else ever could, but he can't say that to Derek. He doesn't want to see how those words would change Derek's face, would destroy this fragile peace. 

"Do you want to stay?" Derek offers. 

"Yeah," Stiles says ruefully, because he _does_ , Jesus, but he has to go. "Allison might be with Scott." 

Derek's thumb traces down the middle of his wrist, and Stiles stretches up to take a quick, deep kiss from Derek, then turns away to see what else there is. 

* 

There's a message on his phone from Danny, complaining about the lack of value for money he's giving Lydia, which means Stiles' phone is running on a serious lag, because Stiles is _awesome_ value for money. 

He doesn't return the call. It doesn't really matter, afterwards will do. 

There are far more important phone calls that have gone unmade today. 

There's still a body in the woods at the back of Rivenden House. 

He can't think about any of this until tomorrow, until this is over, or until he's given them whatever chance exists to get Laura back alive, so he turns up the radio and drives the speed-limit all the way home. 

Scott is in when he arrives. 

"Hey," Stiles says. It feels like a long time since he's seen his best friend, though he knows it hasn't been. Scott's face looks different. "Just came from your mom." 

"Yeah?" 

"She says hi." 

"Really?" Scott asks. 

Stiles doesn't answer, because she hadn't. "Where's Allison?" 

"With her dad," Scott says. "I'm heading out with Danny." 

"Tell him I'm blowing this thing up like a balloon," Stiles says. "And to stop calling me." 

He goes to bed. 

*

Allison is sitting at her desk when he gets into the office the next morning. She looks up with a bright smile when the door opens, but it fades when she sees him, leaving her face pale and strained. 

"Stiles," she says glumly. 

"Hey," he says, with honest concern. "How are you?" 

"Fine," she says tightly. 

"Things didn't go well with your dad yesterday?" 

"Family crap," she says dismissively, spinning her colour-wheel disconsolately. "I don't want to talk about it." 

"I saw your dad yesterday afternoon," Stiles says. "He seemed pretty worked up." 

"He is," she says. "He has reason to be." 

"What's that?" 

"Derek Hale killed my aunt," she says. 

Stiles is shaking his head before she finishes the sentence. He isn't quite sure how to refute the accusation, though, because he can't come out with, _Nope! Uncle Peter did._ Not right now. 

"Did your father tell you that?" 

"He showed me--" 

"What?" 

"He showed me why." 

"Why's that?" 

"He showed me Jackson," she says, and her voice breaks. "He showed me Jackson. What am I going to tell Lydia?" 

"Jackson?" 

"She's my _friend_ ," Allison says, wide eyes tearing. "What am I supposed to do?" 

"What does your dad want you to do?" 

"I dumped him," she says. "He said it was my choice, that I had to make the decision, and I just dumped him by the side of the road." 

"Was he angry with you?" 

"He said it was my choice," she says again. "He knows she's my best friend." 

"Does he care?" 

"No," she says. "I don't think he does." 

"Did he tell you what they're doing with Laura Hale?" 

"He said Scott's mom is one of them." 

"Did you see where they're being held?" 

"I don't know what to do." 

"Allison," he says. 

She takes a deep breath. "I'll be fine." Her eyes clear as she looks at him. "I'm fine." 

"Allison," he says gently, as her face crumbles. "Jackson is your friend too, right? And Erica?" 

"Yeah," she says. "They're all my friends, they're--" 

"And you don't want them to be hurt." 

"No," she says, eyes blind, voice steady. "I don't want them to be hurt." 

"What happened?" 

"He told me everything," she says. "I didn't believe him." 

"So he showed you." 

Her breathing gets ragged, evens out in the blink of an eye. "We have this place down by the river," she tells him. "I didn't know." 

"And he showed you." 

"I know now," she says. "I have to go. I don't know why I'm here." 

She stands, picks up her bag, and leaves. She passes Scott on the stairs, but doesn't acknowledge his greeting. 

"Sorry, dude," Stiles says. "I think you're answering the phone today." 

* 

Stiles leaves the office and goes straight to the courthouse. 

"Argent," he says. "A-R-G-E-N-T." 

"What's the address," Missy Kellerson repeats, giving him gimlets. Missy is a blurred looking girl, if you overlook her violently coloured lips and her hair, bleached a startling platinum blonde. In this case, the choices make the woman: there's nothing fading about her. 

"Down by the river." 

"Doesn't work that way." 

"Reverse look-up," Stiles says, rolling his hands encouragingly at her. "Just look it up reverse." 

"Nope," she says, spinning her chair around so that he can better watch her studying her nails. 

"We went to school together," he says desperately. "Cut me a break." 

"We _did_ go to school together," Missy says. "That's how come I know you're some kind of lowlife PI, and I don't appreciate you trying to trade on how you didn't tell anyone what we did in that heaven-closet that one time." 

"Wh--that was you?" Stiles squints at her. 

"You're not scamming me for free for nothing." 

He hadn't then, either. 

"Ugh," Stiles says, fishing out a bill. "Twenty bucks." 

"Fifty!" 

"Lady, I give you fifty and I'm siphoning your gas to make it through the day." 

She takes the twenty and gives him the address. 

Stiles decides to check it out before unleashing the hounds of war. He's glad of it when he sees the building, because the structure is standard for the area, but it's set back behind an electric fence, the small windows and single door are heavily reinforced, and every inch of the place is alarmed. 

Stiles wonders if Scott could hotwire a building as well as he can a car. 

He reaches for his phone when it vibrates with an incoming call, but by the time he registers Derek's name the call has disconnected. Derek doesn't answer when he returns, so he directs his Jeep towards Rivenden House. He's halfway there when his phone goes again. It's his dad this time. 

"Hey," he says cheerfully. "I'm kind of busy today, but--" 

"Stiles," his dad interrupts sternly. "Why is Derek Hale calling you?" 

"Um," Stiles says. "Why wouldn't he be?" 

"Because he is a person of interest in our newest murder investigation, and I want to know what he has to say to you." 

"Oh," Stiles says dumbly, heart sinking. "Newest investigation?" 

"Andrew Ryland," his dad says. 

"Crap." 

"What is that supposed to mean?" The question is piercing. 

"That I'm sorry Andrew is dead, Dad, God," Stiles says, heart racing. "What else?" 

"Better be nothing," his dad says. "Medical examiner says the remains have been here for twenty-four hours." 

"Wow," Stiles says. "Where?" 

His dad growls, reminding him of Derek, and hangs up. 

"Crap," Stiles says again, letting the guilt and frustration overwhelm him for a second, then redials Derek. 

"Hey," Stiles says breathlessly when the call connects. 

"Stiles," his dad says tersely. "Go away." 

Stiles stares at his phone, at the neon-bright mocking text telling him his call is ended and wonders if it will be his _life_ that's over when his dad catches up with him. 

He's almost at Rivenden House, and he can see a cruiser sitting at the turn-off. He U-ies his way out of there, speeding back towards the safety of his office, watching the cruiser grow vanishingly small in his rearview mirror. 

By the time he's run up the office stairs his heart has almost stopped racing. 

"Scott," he starts, but Scott is scowling. 

"You have a visitor," he says shortly. 

Stiles' heart leaps, thinking _DerekDerekDerek_ , but by the time he's started to turn the hope is dimming, and he's expecting Lydia. 

Erica is sitting hunched in the chair in the corner. 

"Stiles," she says, mouth trembling, as vulnerable as her wide eyes. 

"Hi," he says warily. 

She starts to rise, but the easy strength in her thighs is betrayed by the awkwardness of her tangled arms, and she collapses back into her seat. 

"I couldn't stay," she says. "I had to get away." 

"From my father?" he asks. "From the deputies?" 

"They didn't know I was there," she says. "They saw Boyd--they saw him, they know he's part of--part of us, but they didn't know I was there, and Derek said I had to go, because somebody had to find Laura." 

"Right," Stiles says. He doesn't know if he wants her helping Laura. 

"And I should have stayed, but I couldn't. I had to get out of there." 

Normally Stiles would take her into his office, but he knows Scott is watching, and he wants him to get this. 

"You're the only one who can do this," he tells her. "Are you going to get Laura back?" 

"I can't," she says, feet coming up onto the seat of her chair, hands spasming between her knees. "I don't know where she is." 

"I know," Stiles says. "What are you going to do about it? Are you going to get her back?" 

Erica's eyes are empty and shocky, but Stiles can't tell why. 

"No," she says. "I don't want to. Do I have to? I don't _want_ to." She reaches out to grab the sleeve of Stiles' jacket. All he can feel when he looks at her panicked face is a horrified compassion. He can't think she's sweet, or pretty, or recognise the girl he used to think was a friend. He wishes he wasn't within her grasp. "He said I had to. Do I have to? I don't want to, Stiles." 

He detaches her fingers gently. "No, you don't have to, Erica. You can stay here." He leads her into his office, where at least the chairs are leather, even if they're old and worn. "I'm going to go out, but you can stay here until Boyd comes to get you, okay?" 

"Okay," she says, fingers brushing against him restlessly. 

"Danny has the cupcake store downstairs, and I bet he'd make you lunch if you asked. Do you have any money?" 

She shakes her head helplessly, and he holds back a sigh as he hands over ten bucks. 

"We're going out," he says, reluctantly handing over his keys as well. "We'll lock the door as we leave so nobody bothers you. Don't leave it open, okay?" 

She nods, though he isn't sure how much she's receiving. He goes back out to Scott.


	7. The Walls of Dreaming

"What's going on with the Hales and your dad?" Scott asks. 

"He found a body on the property," Stiles tells him, idly wondering who provided him with that information. "I'm pretty sure everyone who was on the premises has been hauled in." 

"Has my mom been _arrested_?" Scott yelps. 

"Cool it," Stiles says. "And help her out." 

"She has plenty of help," Scott says stiffly. "She doesn't need mine." 

"Seriously?" Stiles says. "Is that what this is about? You're jealous? Because hey, I don't know if you're aware? But your mom's boyfriend is some kind of Charles Manson weirdo murderer, and she is currently being questioned on suspicion of murder by the Sheriff's office, and apparently my dad's been giving her the stinkeye since she started doing that one murderer, remember, and this might be the best thing that could have happened to her, because her niece-in-law has been kidnapped by a rival cult, whose leader _thinks your mother is a werewolf_." 

"Ah--" Scott says. 

"Did I miss anything? Oh, yeah. Your girlfriend is a member of said rival cult!" 

"Oh." Scott's face twists. "She doesn't know anything about her family's--" 

"Her dad told her yesterday," Stiles says brutally. "And I get that this is fucked up, but you need to get over yourself, okay?" 

"What am I supposed to do?" Scott asks blankly. "I don't know what I'm supposed--I don't know how I'm supposed to be okay with this." 

"She doesn't have time for you to be okay with it," Stiles says. 

"Do you want me to break her out of jail?" Scott asks. "What?" 

"We need to figure out who killed Andrew Ryland," Stiles tells him. "It might have been Argent, but--" His eyes slide towards the closed door of his office. "--it might not." 

"Really?" Scott asks, eyes wide. 

Stiles hunkers down so that he can whisper to Scott, in case Erica is eavesdropping. 

"Argent said there's a traitor amongst the Hales. And Erica knew Allison in college. She has a connection to the Argents. Isaac told me." 

"Uh," Scott says, throwing a spooked look at Stiles' door, though it's still closed. "Let's go!" 

He's halfway down the stairs before Stiles gets to the door and yells down to tell Scott that he needs his key. 

"So what are we doing?" Scott asks once they're in the Jeep, peeling away from the office. 

"Um," Stiles says. "I don't know." 

"Okay," Scott says. "Where are we going?" 

"I don't know!" Stiles says, shrugging. 

"Dude." 

"Okay. We need to get Laura back before we bring anything to my dad, but the Argents have her stashed in their place by the river, and I don't know if I can get in." 

"What's the set up?" 

"Electric fence--" 

"Never work," Scott says scornfully. 

"--alarm--" 

"Easy." 

"--and steel on the windows and locks I don't think we can get past." 

"So we need the key," Scott says thoughtfully, tapping his hand on his knee thoughtfully, staring out the window. 

"Where could we get that?" Stiles prompts. 

"Where could we?" Scott wonders, brow furrowing. 

"Are you serious?" Stiles asks, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Always," Scott says. "What?" 

"Allison," Stiles says. 

"Oh," Scott says, face brightening as the light dawns, and then darkening as he considers. "I'm not sure she's going to help us." 

"Of course she'll help us," Stiles says confidently. "Her family's bonkers, but she's okay. And she's totally in love with you, right?" 

"Oh," Scott says doubtfully. "I don't know, Stiles." 

"She is," Stiles reassures him. "You'll see." 

He drives happily onwards, and then he reaches out and slaps Scott's arm. "Hey!" he says. "Want to tell me where we're going?" 

"Oh," Scott says, grinning. "I can do that." 

*

Allison meets them down the end of her street. Scott gets out so that they can have a semblance of privacy while they speak, but Stiles cracks the window so that he can listen. 

"--just don't think you should be getting involved," Allison is saying. 

"I know," Scott says. "I _know_ , babe. But she's my _mom_. I love her. You get that, right?" 

Allison's hands fist, fingers tugging at the long sleeves of her sweater. "Yeah." Her head tilts, and she gives Scott a tremulous smile. "Yeah, I get it." She leans up and kisses his cheek, hands curling around his skull. "I really care about you," she says. "I just--I do." 

"Yeah," Scott says, shy and pleased, nudging his mouth against hers. 

She lets him go, dropping from the balls of her feet. "Okay," she says. "Yeah, she--we have this place on Allen Road." 

"We've seen it," Scott tells her. "We need to get in." 

"My dad took me," Allison says. "I don't know if I can help you." 

"You don't have a key?" Scott asks. "I can take care of the rest." 

"No," she says, fists clenching again. 

"Can you get your dad's?" 

"I don't know where he keeps it," she says. "He'd notice." 

"Maybe--" 

"No, you need to find it. You need to find someone who has one." 

"One?" 

"He has people helping him," she says. "They have copies." 

"Oh," Scott says, glancing over at Stiles. "I think I know where we can get one." 

"Good luck," she murmurs, almost too low to hear, as Scott kisses her blanched face before jogging back over to the Jeep. 

* 

"I'll get it off her," Stiles says. "You go to the Sheriff's office and see what my dad's up to. I really don't want to go in alone. Even Jackson would be something." 

" _Jackson's_ back?" Scott asks. "Did you tell Danny? Because Danny's mad." 

"Lydia will have told him," Stiles says impatiently. 

"I'm not sure Lydia--" 

Stiles stops in front of the Sheriff's office with a jerk. "See what's happening," he says. "Come over when you're done." 

Scott makes a face at Stiles, but he makes his way towards the entrance. 

It's only a couple of seconds before Stiles is pulling up in front of his own office. Danny is strolling down the street, on his way back from one of the smoke breaks he pretends he doesn't take. He scowls at Stiles as Stiles bounces into his doorway. 

"Hey!" Danny shouts, but then the door swings shut and cuts the sound off, and Stiles is on his way up the stairs, frowning at the hissing, flickering lightbulb swinging bare at the top. 

He has Scott's key in his hand when he gets to the landing, but the door moves at his touch. 

"Erica?" he calls. 

He curses as he pushes the door wide; she's probably gone down to Danny's and forgotten to lock up behind herself. Danny always locks _his_ door when he leaves, though, and she hadn't been on the street--

His phone vibrates, distracting him, and he pulls it out as he steps inside, instinctively locking the door behind himself. It's Derek. 

"Hey--" Stiles says, the breathless, relieved rush choking whatever it was he'd been about to say. 

"Hey," Derek says. "Where are you?" 

"In my office," Stiles says. "I need to talk to Erica. Where are you?" 

"They're letting me go," Derek says. "They're all leaving. I don't know what's happening. Did Laura--" 

"No," Stiles says, walking towards his office. The door is ajar. "I don't know. I know where she is, and I'm getting the key to the building from Erica right now. Can you meet--" 

He pushes through his door, and stumbles over Erica's body on the floor, dropping his phone. 

He can hear Derek's voice, distant and muffled, but it doesn't mean very much to him at the moment. He tries to breathe as he stares at Erica, at her wide, blind eyes; at her pink, surprised mouth; at her delicate hand, still reaching out towards him. He stares at the blood in her golden curls, at the blood on the heavy silver frame on the floor, at the photo of him and his father it holds. 

His leg is thrown over hers: she's watching him as he touches her dead flesh the way she'd once wanted. 

He crawls away from her as far as he can and vomits under his desk. 

He doesn't think as he rises to his feet, propping himself up on his desk. His hand touches a key, but it's his, the one he gave her earlier, the one she hadn't used. 

He forces himself to go back over to her body, carefully checking her jeans, her light jacket. He straightens, removing his hand from Erica's empty pocket. Her bag is on his desk. He's rifling through the contents when he hears his father's voice, just outside his office door. 

"Stiles!" 

He keeps searching. 

"Stiles, I don't want to have to give the order to enter, but I will!" 

The order is familiar, the language of it, and he knows his father hates using it. _All reasonable force_. Those words won't lead to any outcome his father will be able to live with, but Stiles knows that won't prevent him speaking them. 

There's silence from the other side of the door, and Stiles can almost hear the grief in his father's voice as he instructs his men. 

There's nothing but a ten-dollar bill in the bag. 

When they start battering at the door, Stiles goes out his window. 

There's a fire-escape outside, but Stiles has never used it. It hasn't been used in years, because it whines and shudders under his weight, and he moves quickly. The ladder at the end doesn't extend quickly enough, so he grabs the last rung, hangs, and drops. 

Derek catches him. 

"Erica's dead," Stiles says. 

"Yeah," Derek says, "I know." 

"How?" Stiles asks angrily. "How do you know?" 

"We need to get out of here," Derek says, and Stiles is angry and hurt and afraid, but when Derek runs Stiles does too. 

Derek glances back over his shoulder at Stiles' office, and Stiles doesn't think his dad's men can be on the fire-escape yet, but when Derek stops, opens a car door, and pulls Stiles down onto the back seat, Stiles goes with it, because the car has blacked-out windows and he's terrified. A second later, a fresh wave of deputies spill out onto the street and spread out, and Stiles is very glad not to be out there with them. He watches as the majority rush over to his office, as Danny comes back out to see what's going on. 

"Everything will be fine," Derek says quietly, and Stiles needs to believe that, so he rolls closer and puts his palm on Derek's stomach and listens to Derek's breath enter and exit his lungs, watches his hand rise and fall. "We need to get out of here." 

They can't get out of the car, so they climb into the front seats. Stiles might kick Derek once or twice on the way, but Derek doesn't look that annoyed, so Stiles figures it never happened. 

Derek ducks, fiddling somewhere down under the dashboard, and the car starts. 

"Will you teach me that?" Stiles asks. 

"Sure," Derek says, driving slowly down the street, not drawing any attention from the worker ants surrounding them. 

"Erica's dead." 

"Yeah." 

"She, uh--she knew Allison, you know." 

"You told me," Derek reminds him. 

"That must be how she got involved with Argent. I don't know why he killed her, though. I don't know why anyone would." 

"I can't imagine anyone hurting Laura," Derek says. "But I know they would. I worry about it all the time." 

"Yeah? I worry about my dad." 

"He must worry about you." 

"No," Stiles says. "He has no reason. I don't normally do stuff like this." 

"Sorry." 

"Yeah, man. Totally your fault. Didn't land myself in this at all." 

"Don't stop," Derek says. His hands tighten on the wheel as he turns the corner, and they don't loosen once they're off the street. "I need you to do this with me." 

"Yeah," Stiles says. He may sound a little vague, but he means it. "Okay. We just need to break Laura out now." 

"We need to meet up with everybody first," Derek says. "And then we'll all go. You can stay in the house." 

"I thought you wanted me to come." 

"Not to that." 

"I can help you," Stiles says. "I can look after myself." 

"Yeah," Derek says. "So can Laura." 

"Women are always at risk of--" 

"She's stronger than I am," Derek says abruptly. "She always has been." 

"You're strong," Stiles says, feeling a little offended. 

"Not the way I need to be. Look at Peter. Look at _Erica_. Laura wouldn't have let this happen. I need her." 

"You'll get her back," Stiles says, and prays that it's true. 

Derek shakes out a breath, and keeps driving. 

"Where are we going?" Stiles asks after a while. 

"Home," Derek tells him. 

"This isn't the way to Rivenden House." 

"That isn't home," Derek says, "and we can't go there anyway." 

Stiles peers out at the passing scenery, the threatening sky and the stretch of the branches above the road they're speeding down. If he wasn't with Derek he'd be worried he was about to be dumped in the woods the way Andrew had been. 

"Hey," he says. "Is this near where Kate Argent and Penny Blake were killed?" 

"Close enough," Derek says. "A lot of people have died out here." 

Stiles isn't sure what he means by that, and then they come out into a clearing that contains a large wooden house, and he doesn't have to ask. The old Hale residence--home, Derek had said--is burnt and blackened to such an extent that Stiles thinks it might collapse into sooty flakes with a breath, or into ashes, and he tries not to wonder how hot the fire had gotten, what had been left of Derek's family. 

"They're here," he says when he sees the cars. 

"No," Derek says, pressing down on the gas abruptly, skidding to a halt inches away from Argent's black 4x4. 

"Oh," Stiles says blankly, heart stuttering, picking up when he realises what's happening. 

"Stay here," Derek growls, launching out of the car. 

Stiles probably should, but _should_ isn't a concept Stiles has ever been much in amity with, and he's racing up the rough steps behind Derek before he's aware of making a decision. The door is open, and his hand is on Derek's back, so his forward momentum is broken when Derek stops dead in the entryway, staring at the scene in front of them. 

Peter and Melissa are standing in the centre of the room, staring at the figures on the fragile stairs; Boyd, Isaac and Jackson are hanging back, waiting to see what will happen, waiting for movement. Chris Argent and his daughter are standing over a prone figure that must be Laura, and Allison is holding a bow and arrow, ready to let fire fly. 

Stiles can see the tension in the length of string, in her arm, in the face he doesn't know anymore. 

The scene holds, and then Derek says, "You really are like her." 

"Don't talk about her," Allison says, turning her sights on Derek. 

"You here to finish the job?" 

"What do you mean?" she asks, businesslike detachment in everything but her eyes. 

"Kate came to my family's funeral, you know," Derek says. "The last one, when we buried my parents and my little brother." 

"Of course she did. She loved you." Stiles can barely see Allison's mouth tremble; there's no weakening of her stance, of her grip on her weapon. 

Derek lets out a sound Stiles thinks is meant to be a laugh. "She said the only thing she regretted was that she hadn't managed to put me in the ground beside them." 

"She didn't," Allison says, and everything about her is scarily blank. Stiles wonders if she will fire, if she will feel anything when she does. 

"She wouldn't have hurt anyone," Chris says, sounding sure. "We live by a--" 

"Code," Peter interrupts. "She told me all about it. She told me that she just did what she was told." 

"There were children in this house," Chris says. "Kate wouldn't have harmed them. We only kill werewolves who have spilled human blood." 

"And yet Allison is about to kill my nephew," Peter says. Stiles blinks, because Peter didn't question Chris' sanity, or inform him that werewolves don't exist, and then he hears what Peter said instead, and presses closer to Derek, fingers digging into the knotted mass of his shoulders. He isn't sure what he thinks he can do, but he's sure that isn't going to stop him from trying. 

"Derek--" 

"Hasn't hurt anyone," Peter says. "He didn't kill your sister. I did." 

"You did," Chris says, face twisting painfully. 

"She decimated my family," Peter says, and for a moment Stiles can see the craziness beneath the charm and charisma, the madness that must always be in him, howling at the moon. "It was justice." He's smiling at Chris. "You understand these things, I know. I just never thought you'd make your daughter a murderer for revenge." 

"Dad," Allison says desperately. 

"He's lying," Chris says, but he sounds like he knows that isn't true, and once he speaks Allison knows it too. 

Her fingers tighten on her arrow, and the bowstring stretches. 

"I thought it more likely to be your wife," Peter says. "But it was the sheriff who made me quite sure. He located a witness who informed a young woman how to commit such an atrocity, and he described an item of jewellery very exactly. A silver pendant bearing a wolf. You buried her in it, didn't you?" 

"No," Allison says, "Dad, no." 

The focus of the room changes when someone comes into the house behind Stiles. His head turns when Derek's does, even though he hadn't realised anyone was there, couldn't have known until the redheaded boy brushes past him, shoving Lydia to the base of the stairs. 

They look like they could be siblings. Stiles doesn't know his name, but he's only a few years younger than they are, and he wishes, suddenly and sharply, that Erica were here to tell him. 

"Got her for you," the boy says, and shoves her onto the steps, weak and unresisting, black and purple and red painting her skin. 

"Lydia!" Jackson cries. 

Her eyes flutter open, and she tries to drag herself to her feet. "Jackson," she says, voice high and thin and excited. "Jackson, you're--" 

The boy pushes her back down as Stiles realises she hadn't known Jackson was alive. 

"I'm not hurting Lydia," Allison says, panicky and distressed, and her arrow swings away from Derek. 

Stiles exhales, but he relaxes too soon, because the arc of Allison's arm leaves her aiming her weapon at Laura, still supine by her feet. It's purely accidental, Stiles thinks, just an unfortunate quirk of trajectory and the formation of the small, isolated group on the stairs, but even as he opens his mouth to say so, Derek's shoulders are shifting under his hand, twisting and changing beneath his touch, and Derek is jumping, higher and further than Stiles knows is possible. 

He lands in a crouch beside Laura, covers her body with his own, and snarls when Allison tries to shove him away with her bow. 

"God," she says. "Oh, God." 

Stiles understands where she's coming from, because he can see Derek's face too, can see the thick, shiny skin, the distorted features, and all the teeth in that still-snarling mouth. 

"Stop," the kid with red hair says, and pulls out a gun. 

Stiles is still staring at Derek's claws. 

"Liam!" Chris Argent yells. "Don't!" 

It's too late; Liam is struggling with the gun in his hands, trying to aim, and it goes off with a surprisingly loud sound. 

Jackson and Isaac are on him, trying to get the gun away from him before he can get off another shot, but it's a graceless, stumbling tussle between the three of them, and Lydia, trying to get clear, gets kicked in the head by one of the combatants and stops fighting to get free. 

Stiles bends over and lifts her out of range, tries to tug her away from danger. She's heavier than she looks, and it takes an effort. 

Stiles doesn't want to put the elbow-grease in: he wants to be over there with Laura, helping Derek, wants to help Laura so Derek will be glad, not even grateful, he doesn't even want that, he doesn't--and he can't let himself want any of it, shoves it all back down, because Lydia is bloody and weak and coming alive as she props herself up on her elbow. Derek will understand. 

"Oh, my God," Lydia says, scrambling to her feet and lurching to the side, touching her head gingerly. "We need to get out of here." 

Stiles glances back up the stairs, to where Boyd and Peter are speaking to the Argents as two wolves-- _werewolves_ , Stiles thinks distantly, two _werewolves_ \--are doing their utmost to hold the line, keep Laura fenced off. He takes a second, sick look at the new werewolf when he realises Melissa is nowhere to be seen. 

"Jackson," Lydia calls, but Jackson is still locked in the struggle, grasping hands not finding purchase. 

"Come on," Stiles says, and tugs at Lydia until she turns towards the door. 

He doesn't want to leave Derek alone in whatever is going on up there, but Stiles isn't sure Derek will notice his absence, and he doesn't know if Derek would mind if he did. He has to believe Derek knows what he's doing, knows what the people around him will do and who they are, but at this point, maybe Derek just doesn't care. 

Stiles knows Derek loves his sister, but Stiles has never met her, and if the uncle is anything like the rest of the family then maybe the sister never mattered: maybe Derek has been on his own for a really long time. 

Stiles isn't sure he'll ever know.

His head is turned upwards, watching as Derek rises and crosses to Chris, watching as Allison drops her bow, her almost-full quiver, and then a shot rings out and everything stops. 

The heads on the stairs all turn, and Melissa stands, human again, looking as surprised as the rest of them that the kids weren't all right down there. 

"Jackson," Lydia says desperately, straining against Stiles' hold. 

Isaac steps backwards, then Liam, and finally Jackson; Lydia sobs, and Liam falls to the ground, and Stiles lets her go so that she can fly to Jackson, can be caught, finally, if that's what she wants to call it. 

Liam looks surprised, and as if he's in pain, and surprised at the pain, surprised at the blood bubbling from his mouth as he tries to gurgle out words that won't come. 

It's the first time Stiles has ever seen someone die. 

Afterwards, when the Sheriff arrives, nobody will know who pulled the trigger. 

It might even be true.


	8. Answered Prayers

His dad hauls them all in to get things ironed out, and Stiles can't even say he's wrong. 

He can complain about it, though. 

"Do you have to handcuff your own son?" he demands from his bench in the bullpen, and leans backwards to yell into his dad's office, "I don't have anywhere left to run!" 

Lydia is sitting on the bench beside him, though she isn't handcuffed to it. 

"What are we telling them?" she asks from behind her precise smile. He can hear all the questions that lie beneath her words, but he doesn't know how to answer any of them. He doesn't even know if she saw Derek and Melissa as they had been. 

"You don't have anything to tell," he says, which tells her what they're _not_ telling his dad anyway, if she's in the know. "And the rest of us are still trying to figure out what we have to tell. I'm not sure what I know." 

There are a lot of questions he isn't going to be able to answer even to himself. 

"But I want to know what happened." 

Laura had wanted the same, opening her eyes just as the ambulance had arrived to take her away, demanding that someone tell her what the hell was going on. Nobody had. Nobody had been able to. 

"You and me both," Stiles says, but he's about to give her what he's got when his dad yells for him and his warden comes over to release him from bondage. 

"Stiles," Scott says quietly, eyes on the small key turning in the lock. "Why weren't they down by the river? Allison said they were keeping her down by the river." 

Stiles thinks about pushing his hands inside Erica's pockets, searching her clothes for hidden places she might have concealed something, searching for a key he doesn't believe existed, and never mattered if it did. 

"They were," he says. "But they moved her that morning, when they released Jackson. Allison lied to us." 

"Oh," Scott says, and gets up as Stiles does. 

He moves away without a goodbye, walking purposelessly towards the exit. He's been interviewed already, and he's free to go, but he's been hanging around for a while. Allison had flown like a bat out of hell as soon as they'd released her. 

"Your mom's still upstairs," Stiles reminds him. 

He keeps walking. 

Abramovich hurries Stiles towards his dad's office, but when he gets there, Derek is only coming out. 

"Hey," Derek says, stopping too close. "I'm going to the hospital to see Laura." 

It's not as strange as it should be, looking up at Derek's face now and remembering the way it had been a couple of hours ago. It's not quite real, either, but dealing is what Stiles does, and he knows this will, soon, be more of the same. 

"She coming home tonight?" 

Derek shrugs. "Either way, you should come over after." 

His hand slides cautiously onto Stiles' hip, but there's no need for such hesitance: people around here are used to Stiles by now, and he thinks Derek will be soon too. 

Still, it's the first time Derek has reached out for him, the first time Derek has touched him at all since Stiles saw the other thing that he is, and Stiles doesn't want to discourage him. He lets his fingers glance over Derek's knuckles, and says, "Yeah, I'll see you later." 

"Stiles!" his dad yells. 

"Better go before he finds a reason to keep you in lock-up for the night," Stiles says with a quick grin. 

Derek heads out alone too, like Scott, like Allison, but at least he isn't going to stay that way. 

"What the hell have you gotten yourself mixed up in?" his dad asks wearily. 

Stiles can't really deny it, so he just says, "Not my fault!" 

"Don't try that on with me." 

"Come on, dad," Stiles whines, trying it on despite the warning, "You know me!" 

Stiles can read the message in his dad's quizzical brow loud and clear, so when he says, "Stiles, tell me," Stiles does. 

He tells his dad about looking for Jackson and finding Derek, about looking for Laura and finding an old sickness festering between the families, a rot in the wood. 

"So Erica knew Allison in college," Stiles says, "she knew the Argents first, and I guess she had divided loyalties when she joined their, you know, commune." 

"Is that what we're calling it now?" 

"What else would we call it? It's a perfectly respectable place." It would make his father happy to think so if Stiles is going to be sticking around there, so Stiles will do his best to allow him to think it. "So she hated them, I guess, and--" 

"Why would she kill those girls?" his dad asks. "Andrew Ryland I understand, if he was going to expose her, but the beginning of it all?" 

Stiles shrugs. He can't tell his dad what he's really thinking, can't repeat Chris Argent's words: _spill human blood_. Stiles isn't sure, but he thinks maybe that was it, maybe Erica just couldn't control herself when she had to spend time around humans. Maybe she was just made that way. 

Maybe she would have turned on him, in the end, if he'd let her sleep on his sofa, if he'd brought her a sandwich back from Danny's and found her alone, alive, in his office. 

"She was always a little off-kilter," he says. "Maybe there wasn't a reason." 

"Who killed her?" his dad asks. 

Stiles shrugs again. It could have been any of the Argents, he thinks, or any of their associates. "Liam?" he suggests. "He tried hard enough to kill Isaac and Jackson." 

"Hmm," his dad hums, and releases him with a gesture. "Send Melissa McCall in," he says, stopping Stiles in the door. "And don't tell her why. I never should have showed Peter Hale that damn sketch." 

"You had to find out if he would recognise it," Stiles says supportively. "And good job on getting him to spill." 

" _Go_ ," his dad grumbles, and Stiles does, running quickly up the flight of stairs that leads to the small break room where Melissa McCall is drinking cold, bitter coffee and sharing the battered couch with Peter Hale. 

He waves at Isaac, in an office at the end of the hall, sitting at someone else's desk. He looks tired even at this distance, but he waves back, smiling. 

"Dad wants you in his office," Stiles tells Melissa, and when Peter rises with her, "He isn't your doctor. You don't get to bring someone to hold your hand." 

Melissa lifts her chin and deliberately takes Peter's hand. "We're getting married," she says. 

"...Oh." Stiles know there's only one reason people marry during a murder investigation. "Felicitations." 

She nods, releases her new fiancé, and goes downstairs. 

"Congratulations," Stiles tells Peter, who bares his teeth the way he had when they'd first met, the way Stiles understands now, and forces Stiles to fall back as he leaves the room. 

Boyd wanders in a second later. 

"Man," Stiles says awkwardly, and then stops, at a loss. He watches Boyd's hollowed-out, waxen face, and doesn't know where to begin. 

"Yeah," Boyd says. "I don't understand it." 

"I know," Stiles says. "I don't either. I don't think anyone could." 

"Who would want to hurt her?" 

"Nobody who knew her. She was lovely." She had still been that, in the end, and that's probably all she had let Boyd see. 

"They're saying she killed Penny and her friend." 

"I know," Stiles murmurs. 

"But she wanted Penny around. She wanted another girl, because Melissa is old and Laura's always such a hardass, and Erica's always so lonely when I'm not--" 

His face shuts down. 

"I'm sorry," Stiles says, for the first time. Looking at Boyd now, he means it. "She was friends with the Argents though. Maybe she just got caught up, or maybe she couldn't control the, you know--" 

"What?" Boyd says. 

"You know," Stiles says, and makes the claws and tries a 'rawr' on for size. 

"She wasn't friends with the Argents," Boyd says. "She only knew Allison because Isaac introduced them." 

"...Oh," Stiles says, coming to earth with a sickening thump. Landings are always jarring. "Has my dad interviewed Isaac yet?" 

"He's not interviewing Isaac," Boyd tells him. "He doesn't know Isaac is part of the pack." 

"He didn't pull Isaac in over Ryland?" 

"Wasn't home," Boyd says. "Or he'd be in as much trouble as I am. Everybody but Erica--" 

"Yeah," Stiles says. "I know." 

He pats at Boyd clumsily, but he doesn't have time, he has to go. He apologises as he leaves, but Boyd doesn't seem to hear, doesn't even seem to notice him go. 

Stiles swivels on his heel outside the door, turns to the right, and walks down the hall towards Isaac. 

Halfway there, he stops, listening to the clacking of Isaac's fingers on the keyboard, wondering if he's as crazy as everybody else this thing has snared. Isaac didn't have to feed him some line about Erica knowing Allison, didn't have to plant that seed in his mind; all he would have had to do was suggest that she'd never really gotten over that breakdown, had never developed the control she needed. Stiles wouldn't have understood that suggestion, though, because he hadn't known Erica was a werewolf, and he was never supposed to learn. 

He keeps walking. 

He doesn't rap on the door as he enters, but Isaac looks up immediately, still smiling slightly. 

"Hey, Stiles," he says in greeting. 

"Why did you give me Lisa Lane?" Stiles asks, watching as the smile fades. "If you were just going to kill her. Why did you put me on the case?" 

Isaac considers several responses. Stiles can see the moment he dismisses them all. 

There's a small balcony behind Isaac, and the doors that lead to it are open, letting the sun stream into the room, glinting off Issac's hair, striking gold from the dirty brown. "I was hoping you'd talk her into going back to her parents. I didn't realise how much she knew about me." 

"What did she know?" 

"She knew I killed Penny," Isaac says casually. "And Penny knew that I was meeting Chris, and she had told Lisa before she confronted me about it. Stupid of her, of course. They were both stupid girls." 

"I didn't realise you were close to the Argents," Stiles says. 

His head is pounding, but he's ready for whatever happens. He knows he has to be. 

"They were very good to me after my father died. A werewolf killed him, you know. I never have been able to find out who, but it isn't as if I cared. I've always been very grateful. Chris never understood that." 

"A werewolf killed your father?" 

"Laura swore it wasn't one of our pack," Isaac says. "But she might not know. And it isn't as if I wouldn't understand. You do develop a taste for it, once you begin." 

Stiles thinks of Penny Blake, her throat torn out, and Lisa Lane, torn apart, and Andrew Ryland, nothing left of him, and he wonders what Isaac would have done to Liam if all those eyes hadn't been on him. He refuses to get sick twice in one day. 

"And you had to kill Andrew and Liam," Stiles says easily. "They knew you were working with Chris, and you couldn't have the pack finding that out." 

Isaac nods agreeably, and Stiles remembers how friendly he'd been when Stiles had stopped him to tell him how crazy Chris was, when he must have had Ryland's body in the trunk of his car. 

"I don't suppose there's much chance I'm getting out of this," Isaac says, echoing Stiles' thoughts. "Andrew's DNA is all over my cruiser." 

"Why did you help Argent take Laura and Jackson?" 

"Well, I had to," Isaac explains earnestly. "He put me in, you know, he wanted somebody in there. I had to do what he told me, or I wouldn't have been of use, and he might have told Laura what I was doing. He might even have decided I was his enemy. I didn't have a choice." 

"You were afraid of Laura?" 

"No," Isaac says, standing and going over to the open doors, letting the sun fall on his raised face. "I love Laura. I love them all. I didn't want to go. She would have made me leave." 

"Christ." 

"I always wanted a family," Isaac says, appealing for understanding. "And it was almost like I had two. I couldn't let that go." 

"I get it," Stiles says with his dry mouth. 

"I didn't want to hurt Laura, but I didn't think Chris would. She's our alpha, and a new alpha is made by killing the old. If Chris had killed her, Peter and Derek would have fought for the position. He didn't want that. He wanted the pack to know she was alive so their hands would be tied, so they couldn't replace her. She wasn't going to get hurt." 

"Erica did, though," Stiles says. 

Isaac turns his head so that he can squint at Stiles, and his hair is whipped by the wind, a stream of glittering gold against the crisp blue sky. 

"I didn't want to do that," he says. "But you wouldn't stop pushing, and I had to give you something. She figured it out, you know. She heard you talking in your office, and she knew I'd told you she was tight with Allison. She called me and asked me to come over and tell her why I'd said that. She let me in. She was always such a sweet girl. I didn't want to do that to her." 

"But I wouldn't stop pushing," Stiles says. 

"You, and Peter, and Chris." 

"Peter?" 

"Pushy Peter," Isaac says. "He always knows everything, you know. But Chris really wants to be a good man. He's trying. You do too." 

"I don't try," Stiles says. "I do." 

The high winds blow a cloud over the sun, and for a second, Stiles can see Isaac's eyes clearly, those old, sad, distant eyes. "You haven't done much of that this time," Isaac says. "Don't be too hard on yourself." 

And before Stiles can stop him he's stepped through the doors and is on the balcony, and then he's jumping over the side. 

Stiles is frozen, reaching out helplessly. This building doesn't have a fire escape. He hadn't been ready for that. 

And then he's racing, following Isaac's path, staring over the balcony at Isaac's broken body on the ground below. He's glad this isn't the first time he's seen somebody die. 

And then he's watching as Isaac unbends his limbs, as he climbs slowly, painfully, to his feet, leaving the small pool of blood behind. 

As soon as Isaac starts running, Stiles does too, but by the time they catch up with him he's made it to his cruiser and made it stick, silver bullets in his brain as deeply as he'd shoved that silver frame into Erica's skull. 

* 

Derek isn't back at Rivenden House by the time Stiles gets there, but the rest of the pack is. Melissa is wearing an engagement ring, showing it proudly to Scott. 

"She always wanted a secure, adult relationship," Scott says later. "I suppose this is it." 

"Yeah," Stiles says, smiling at Peter as he wonders what, exactly, the man had known, and where he got the money for that ring. "You talk to Allison?" 

"No," Scott admits, but he seems less diminished by it than he had earlier. "Not yet." 

"I can't believe you didn't tell me," Lydia is complaining to Jackson. "I'm totally going to be a werewolf. I'm going to be the _best_ werewolf. And we need to do it before the wedding, so I look super-extra-fine in my dress. Not that I need the help." 

Peter appears pleased with this development. Stiles is trying not to think of it as getting a new puppy the day the old one dies, and he's trying to ignore the speculative looks Peter is throwing him and Scott. 

Derek arrives as Scott is making noise about leaving, which saves Stiles from breaking the news that he _isn't_. 

Stiles isn't breaking the news about anything tonight; he lets Peter fill Derek in on Isaac, and doesn't watch his face as the information hits, just leans his head against the side of Derek's arm. 

"Laura back tomorrow?" he asks Derek, when he thinks he can change the subject. 

"Yeah." 

"That'll be fun." 

"Maybe," Derek says, less desperate to have his sister returned to him now than he'd been when there'd been a possibility she might not be. 

"The bloom is off the rose," Stiles says sadly, which causes Derek to look down at him curiously. 

"What?" 

"Nothing," Stiles says with a yawn. 

"Tired?" 

"I've had a long day. I am ready for bed." 

"Yeah," Derek agrees, and pulls Stiles up the stairs without a word to the group. 

"Guess I'm not getting a ride?" Scott yells. 

"How did you even get here?" Stiles yells back, but then Derek yanks him up the last few steps and shoves him against the wall and kisses him, and he forgets he was saying anything. 

"Okay," Stiles says. "Do you have a bedroom?" 

Derek pulls away slowly. "Yes," he says, like that's supposed to be obvious or something. 

"Right," Stiles says. "You _would_ , I suppose. I was just making sure you didn't all sleep in a pile on the kitchen floor or something, because like, rejected." 

"Rejected?" 

"Theoretical floor sex," Stiles reassures him, running his eyes over Derek's body. "Not actual rejection." 

"Hmm," Derek says, and tows Stiles down the hall and into his bedroom. 

Then he trips Stiles to the floor. 

"What," he says, when Stiles stops laughing. "It's not the kitchen." 

"No," Stiles says, but Derek's mouth is moving over him and his hands are getting under Stiles' clothes really easily, big and strong and-- Stiles yelps. "No tearing!" he insists, slapping Derek's hands away and scrambling up to take the rest of his clothes off and make it to the bed. 

Derek is convulsing with laughter as he comes down on top of Stiles. 

"What?" Stiles asks. His annoyance doesn't prevent him from throwing a leg around Derek's hips and pulling him closer. 

"Nothing," Derek says, grinning. "I'm just happy." 

It's kind of scary how much Stiles wants that, so he pulls Derek down for another kiss as he peels him out of his jeans. Once they're gone he flips them over, presses Derek's shoulders to the bed and holds him down as if he thinks he can. 

Derek lets him, and rumbles when Stiles puts his mouth on his chest, so Stiles runs with it. He puts his mouth on Derek's nipple and sucks, and when Derek jerks, almost dislodging him before settling back with a hand on Stiles' head to keep him in place, he tries his teeth. 

Derek _really_ likes _that_ , which makes sense, Stiles supposes, though it does give him a moment's worry about whether Derek will want to do the same to him, and what those long, strange teeth he's seen would feel like on his body. 

There's no sign that Derek is losing control, though, and even when Stiles bites deeply into his stomach and Derek's cock slaps wetly against his chin and Derek's fingers tighten on his head, there's no hint of claws or anything, so Stiles lets himself relax. 

He nudges around Derek, teasing with his nose, with closed-mouth kisses pressed against hot, hard skin. When he moves down to Derek's balls, Derek grabs his cock and shifts quickly so that he can rub it over Stiles' lips. 

"Come on," he says. 

Stiles rears back, annoyed. "Do you think I don't know what I'm doing or something?" he asks. Because that's been said, but Stiles doesn't think it's been a valid criticism in a long time. "Because I do." 

"Come _on_ , then," Derek repeats impatiently, one hand offering up his dick, the other on the back of Stiles' head, pulling him back in. 

Stiles rolls his eyes and goes. 

He sucks lightly on the head of Derek's cock until Derek is cursing, licks at the taste until Derek gives him more, and then he sinks down as far as he can, until Derek is pressing at the back of his throat. He would swallow, but he's still a little irritated by Derek's pushiness, so he pulls all the way back up and goes back to playing with the head, flicking his tongue in a way that he knows will get Derek almost where he wants to go. 

"Fuck," Derek says, and "Watch the teeth," and Stiles is about to _show Derek teeth_ , but then Derek is arching up over him and grabbing his hips, manhandling Stiles around as he settles back down onto the bed, and before Stiles knows it his cock is in Derek's mouth. 

"Fuck," he moans, though he has to pull his own mouth off Derek to do it. 

"Don't stop," Derek says. 

"Are you always this bitchy in bed?" Stiles asks, but Derek's mouth is busy, so he just laughs breathlessly and gets back to it. 

He loses control first, hips rocking into Derek's face, and he's about to do something spectacular to make up for it when Derek pulls him off, pulls away. 

"Okay," he says, flipping Stiles onto his back and throwing his legs wide. 

"Hey," Stiles objects warily, but then Derek's mouth is on him, tongue licking into his hole, and Stiles _loves_ this. He's moaning and babbling and pulling Derek closer way more insistently than Derek had done to him, and he doesn't _care_ , and neither does _Derek_ , because he just pushes his tongue deeper, making noises like he _wants_ it. 

He takes it away when Stiles' thighs start shaking, and when Stiles curses this time it's pure frustration. 

"Come on," he moans. "Come _on_." 

He can feel the grin that Derek presses into his thigh, but he just tries to hook a leg around Derek's neck, tries to get him back. 

"You going to fuck me now?" Derek asks. 

"Yeah," Stiles says, scrambling up, trying to regain some control of his body. 

Derek goes onto his back and pulls one of Stiles' legs over his stomach so Stiles is straddling him, but Stiles says, "Oh, no, man, that does not count," and dives for his jeans and the sachet in the pocket. 

The claws still don't appear when Derek tears it open, but the lube does go everywhere, and Stiles has to run his hands over Derek's stomach before he can run them over Derek's cock. 

"Okay," he says, settling back on his knees and reaching behind him for Derek's cock, rubbing until he fits it in place and pushes down. He makes a noise when Derek pushes him open, but it's okay, because Derek is making noise too, more than he is, and it feels good. His thighs are shaking again, but he sinks down and down until he's sitting on Derek. 

"Mmm," he moans, rocking gently. 

Derek moves with him, small pushes up into his ass, a motion that makes Stiles speed up. His hands are on Derek's chest, and he's sliding up easily, but it's a relief when Derek takes over, when he can just feel and gasp and claw at Derek when he isn't giving Stiles exactly what he wants, and sometimes because he _is_. 

"Fuck," Stiles says, slapping Derek's shoulder. "There, yeah." 

Derek shoves up against that spot again and again and again, pulling Stiles back down and sending electricity crackling up his spine like a shock about to spark, and still somehow Stiles is aware that it's Derek who's getting really loud, letting out a cry every time he fucks up into Stiles. 

"Shh," he says. "Shut up." 

Derek starts laughing again, which makes the inside of Stiles' eyelids flare red for a second. 

"They can hear us," he says, putting a hand on Stiles cock. 

"Yeah," Stiles gasps. "So _shut up_." 

"No," Derek says, grinning, and Stiles should be mad, but he groans and shoves down harder on Derek instead, gasping at the bite of Derek's fingers into his hips. "They're _werewolves_. They can _hear_ us." 

"Fuck," Stiles says, all his nerve-endings jangling, and when Derek's hand tightens on his cock he comes almost despite himself, collapsing down onto Derek's chest and biting for the release. 

That makes Derek's hips snap up harder into him, makes Derek prop him up the way he wants him and grunt every time he fucks deep. 

The angle hasn't changed, and Stiles starts making noises he doesn't want to admit to as shivers break out of him from somewhere bone-deep, and then Derek is coming inside him, getting him all wet and filthy. 

"Fuck," Stiles breathes, satisfied, and then yelps, "Hey!" as Derek pulls out and flips him onto his back and goes back down to lick over his hole again before coming up to kiss Stiles deep and easy. 

Stiles laughs into Derek's mouth, because he suspects that Derek might be really fucking dirty, and he's looking forward to finding out. 

"What?" Derek asks, amused. 

"Nothing," Stiles says, shoving Derek off, onto his back on the bed beside him. 

Derek throws an arm up over his head and closes his eyes, looking disgustingly pleased with himself. 

Stiles should say something to bring him back down to earth, but he doesn't want to. He smiles fondly and throws a tired leg over Derek's thighs, an arm over his stomach. Derek's hand curls gently over the back of his knee. 

"I'm glad you're here," Derek says, voice heavy with sleep. 

Stiles is too. 

It's a rush, feeling Derek now and remembering all the fear and anxiety and terrified hope he'd been standing up under earlier, a rush to be able to relax into the giddy happiness surging through him. 

Stiles has never been in love. He isn't sure what it feels like, and he isn't sure if this is it, and he thinks he probably shouldn't be associating terror and anguish and sex with the state anyway. He wonders if he should doubt it, or act like it is love, the way he wants it to be, just in case. 

He wonders which would be safer. 

He doesn't think it matters much. 

He reaches past Derek and turns out the light, settling down into the darkness. 

end.

  


If you've made it this far, thank you! And please [check out the art!](http://becausethatswhatido.tumblr.com/post/39781149740/good-love-good-night-authors-name-januarylight) ♥


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